

COROUGtrr DEPOSIT. 




TO 

HIRAM CLAPP, ESQ., 

This Book 

IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 
BY HIS FRIEND, 


WILLIAM T. ADAMS. 





DRIFTING TO SEA. 


.HREE 



OR 


SbihJ= 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD 


BY 




WILLIAM T. ADAMS 

(OLIVER OPTIC) ■ 

AUTHOR OF “ LIVING TOO FAST,’’ “ IN DOORS AND OUT,”. “ TAKEN BY THE ENEMY,” 
“WITHIN THE enemy’s LINES,” “ ON THE BLOCKADE,” ETC. 


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ILLUSTRATED 




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BOSTON MDCCCXCr 

LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS 

lo MILK STREET NEXT ‘‘THE OLD SOUTH MEETING HOUSE** 




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Entered, according^ to Act of Co\>gress, in the year ISG6, by 
!• ' WILLIAM T. ADAMS, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts, 


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Copyright, 1834, by William T. Adams 


THE WAV OF THE WORLD 




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CONTENTS 


Chaptsb Pagb 

I. Three Millions. 7 

II. Mr. Eliot Buckstone. . • • • • • 21 

III. The Hungerford Family. • ^ • 33 

IV. Off the Great Bell. ...... 45 

V. The Kingman Family. 58 

VI. A Strange Story. ...... 71 

VII. Poor Mary! 83 

VIII. To Europe and Back. 96 

IX. Healing the Wounds 109 

X. Ross Kingman. ....... 122 

XI. Doctor Bilks 135 

XII. Dick Birch 144 

XIII. Dick under a Shadow 161 

XIV. In the Library 174 

XV. Dr. Bilks on the Stand. 188 

XVI. Dr. Bilks’s Baby 203 

XVII. The Settlement. 217 

XVIII. Evidence Wanted. 231 

XIX. The Rope and the Weight. ..... 244 

XX. The Shadow at Pine Hill. .... 256 

XXI. The Demigod of Pine Hill 269 

I * (5) 


i \ ' • i • 

6 CONTENTS. 

Chapter Page 

XXII. Dick Birch’s Suggestion ... .282 

XXIII. Julia Hungerford 296 

XXIV. PoppLETON Gospel. 309 

XXV. Doctor Lynch. 321 

XXVI. The Penitent Demigod 335 

XXVII. The Verdict 349 

XXVIII. The Doctor Himself again 362 

XXIX. Forgive and Forget 374 

XXX. The Rustic Bridge 387 

XXXI. A Homceopathic Dose 400 

XXXII. Criminal Carelessness 412 

XXXIII. Dick Birch and Lady 425 

XXXIV. Thirty Years Old 438 

XXXV. The Last of the Three Millions. . . . 450 


THE 


WAY OF THE WORLD. 


CHAPTER L 


THREE MILLIONS. 



HREE million dollars ! In round numbers, three mil- 


lion dollars, after the legacies to individuals and the 
bequests to charitable institutions had been paid ! 

Three million dollars ! Suggestive of mighty air-castles, 
of untold grandeur, of matchless liberality to the poor and 
needy ! Suggestive, also, of long and weary years of 
patient seeking after worldly wealth, of painful struggles 
with adverse circumstances, and of parsimonious self-denial 
extending even to the very necessities of life. 

There had been three great epochs in the life of John Hun- 
gerford, the Baltimore millionnaire^ at each of which he had 
annexed a zero to the number indicating his worldly wealth ; 
and it must also be said that he was continually adding 
zeros to the sum total of his moral and spiritual posses- 
sions. When he commenced his business career, he had 
tliree thousand dollars. Operating with care and pi*udence. 
it required twenty years to annex the first zero, and he was 
forty-one when the first financial cycle was completed. An- 
other twenty years of care and toil annexed the second 
zero, and John Hungerford was more than threescore. 


s 


THE WAY OB THE WORLD. 


Then fortune, always constant, became lavish, and the ver}! 
skies seemed to rain down wealth. His real estate doubled, 
tripled, and quadrupled, and ten years placed the third and 
last zero against the accumulations of his lifetime. Then, 
having passed his threescore years and ten, he retired from 
active business with fear and trembling for the stupendous 
fortune he had made. Only three years more of life were 
vouchsafed to him ; but one with his simple habits could not 
spend d tithe of his income, and another half million was 
added, almost in spite of himself. 

Wherefore had John Hungerford struggled so patiently 
with the tide of fortune ? Wherefore had he neglected his 
body and his soul for fifty long years? Wherefore had he 
lived in a mean house, upon the coarsest fare, with never a 
horse, and hardly a servant to ease his toilsome but success- 
ful march up to the pinnacle of his worldly ambition ? He 
had not a child to inherit his hard-earned gains. He had no 
friends but those who had been constant to him in business 
relations, and they never crossed the threshold of his homely 
dwelling. Nothing but the love of wealth could. have sus- 
tained him in his fierce struggles for the mammon of the 
world. 

Yet John Hungerford was not a bad man. He had cheat- 
ed no one ; had never wronged the widow and the fatherless. 
He had no friends, because he wanted none ; his blood rela- 
tions had long ago ceased to darken his doors, feeling that 
they were not welcome guests. They were few in number, 
including only the son and daughter of his only brother, for 
the Baltimore millionnaire could boast of no long line of an- 
cestors, and the family tree, so far as his knowledge extend- 
ed, had its root in the preceding generation. 

John Hungerford, senior, had never known a father or a 
mother. He was, at his earliest recollection, an inmate of 
an English workhouse, and he had at a tender age been 
bound out to a farmer. From this humble beginning he had 
bettered his condition until he was able to save a few pounds, 


THREE MILLIONS. 


9 


when he married. Prosperity smiled upon him in a small 
wa^ , and about the year 1790 he had emigrated to America, 
bringing with him his wife and his four children, the oldest 
of whom, John, junior, was nineteen years of age, while the 
youngest, James, was twelve. 

The whole family went to work in good earnest, and for 
a year were prosperous and happy ; but the angel of death 
swept through the contented household during the following 
year. A malignant fever carried off first the mother, then 
the two daughters, and finally the father, leaving only John 
and James to mourn the wreck which death had made in 
their home. The old man, who had learned industry and 
thrift in an English workhouse, left six thousand dollars. 

John was now twenty-one years of age, and, besides re- 
ceiving the portion that f^i to him, he was appointed the 
guardian of his younger brother. Then he commenced the 
career of which we have given the result at the beginning 
of this chapter. James 'worked in a store till he was of 
age ; and then, with his three thousand dollars, which John 
promptly paid to him, with interest, he went farther north, 
where he invested his little capital in a cotton-mill, and ob- 
tained the situation of overseer in the factory. 

James Hungerford had none of the genius for money get- 
ting which distinguished his brother. He was content with 
his position in the cotton-mill, and hardly doubled his capital 
in twenty years. At the age of thirty-four he man*ied a lady 
of twenty ; but it was ten years later when his first child, 
Eugene, was born, who was followed, four years after, by a 
daughter, Julia. 

When the patient, plodding father died at the age of fifty- 
four, he left only the small cottage in which he lived, and 
the three thousand dollars in mill stock, which had paid him 
dividends for over thirty years. Mrs. Hungerford was a 
prudent and skilful woman, and she contrived to live very 
comfortably with her little family on the income of the stock, 
still occupying the small cottage which her husband had left 


to 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


At this time John Hungerford had added the second zero to 
the number which indicated his wealth. For many years 
there had been no regular communication between the fam- 
ilies of John and James. Mrs. Hungerford had written to 
her brother-in-law, whom she had never seen, the particulars 
of the death of her husband. A prompt reply had been re- 
turned, in which the man of money deplored the loss of the 
husband and father, and even intimated that, if any assistance 
were required, it would be rendered. The widow was too 
high-spirited and self-reliant to make any demands upon the 
wealthy brother, and she replied that her family was in com- 
fortable circumstances, and had no occasion to trespass upon 
his liberality. 

In the mean time John himself, at the age of fifty-three, 
had married a widow who was the mother of a boy four 
years of age. Mrs. Lynch, who became Mrs. Hungerford 
by this arrangement, was an ambitious woman, who knew 
something of the extent of her husband’s possessions ; but 
she found that John had an iron will. He would not even 
move from the mean dwelling he occupied to one better 
adapted to a man of his wealth. Few and slight were the 
changes adopted in the household ; indeed, they were little 
more than the substitution of a wife for a housekeeper. The 
widow was disappointed and indignant ; but John was grow- 
ing old, and she temporized with the present that the future 
might yield a golden harvest. 

The man of wealth, as before hinted, was not a bad nor 
a hard-hearted man, and though Tom Lynch, his wife’s son, 
was not the most promising youth in the world, John Hun- 
gerford derived a solid pleasure from his company, and favors 
which the mother could not obtain were readily won by the 
son. Mrs. Hungerford was delighted with these indications, 
and hoped and expected that her boy would be the fortunate 
heir of the rich man. She kept the peace, and submitted to 
her disappointments in the most exemplary manner, believ- 
ing that the day of her triumph was not far distant. 


THREE MILLIONS. 


t1 


Tom Ivynch, in due time, was sent to a Pennsylvania col- 
lege by his indulgent stepfather, who had thus far obstinately 
refused to die, as his loving wife wished ; and when John 
Hungerford had closed up his warehouses, and nominally 
retired from business, Tom had been graduated, and was 
studying a profession in Philadelphia. 

When his wife's son had completed his collegiate course, 
a bright thought entered the brain of the fnillionnalre. As 
sending Tom to college had not ruined him, it occurred to 
him that he might make another venture of the same kind. 
Having more time on his hands than ever before, having, in 
fact, so closed up his business that he had little to do but 
collect and invest his income, he had bestowed a thought 
upon the family of his brother James. In six lines of a let- 
ter, penned with difficulty, he had informed the widow Hun- 
gerford that he was tolerably well, and wished to know some- 
thing about her family. The answer assured him that all 
were well and happy ; that the children were growing finely, 
and in due time would doubtless ripen into an excellent 
young man and an excellent young woman. Eugene, she 
wrote, had particularly distinguished himself as a scholar, 
and a minister of Poppleton had intimated that the young 
man ought to be sent to college ; but, the widow added, her 
means were utterly insufficient to enable her to carry out 
such a magnificent project, though her son would be rejoiced 
to continue his studies. She declared that Eugene was a 
noble boy, and submitted without a murmur to his disap* 
pointmeiit. In a few weeks he would go into a store. 

Whether the statement was intended as a hint or not, the 
uncle promptly sent her a draft for two thousand dollars, 
which he, thought would take the boy through college hand- 
somely. The letter of thanks in which this gift was ac- 
knowledged was so warm and earnest, that the old man's 
heart was kindled to finer issues than he had ever before 
known. He wrote again, insisting that Mrs. Hungerford and 
her twe children should visit him in Baltimore without 


2 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


deky. He was too old and feeble to go to them, and they must 
come to him. Of course the widow could raise no objec- 
tions to a project so reasonable, and she immediately an- 
nounced her intention to accept the invitation. Though she 
was an independent and high-minded woman, who would not 
thrust herself or her children upon the notice of her wealthy 
brother-in-law, very likely she felt that it would be trifling 
with Providence to neglect this opportunity to improve the 
relations subsisting between them and the childless million- 
naire. 

John Hungerford told his wife what he had done, and 
announced the visit of his relatives. She turned pale, and 
trembled for the future of her son. She would have re- 
belled, if policy had not suggested a milder course, and she 
only declared that the house was in no condition to receive 
guests. The only practical result of the lady’s protest was, 
a few hundred dollars were spent in “ tidying ” up the estab- 
lishment. 

Mrs. Hungerford and her children came. They were 
kindly welcomed by the old man, and prudentially welcomed 
by the old man’s wife. It is true the visitors were astonished 
to find that the man of millions dwelt in a mean, poorly fur- 
nished house, without the slightest pretension to luxury or 
style; but they made no comments. Uncle John was kind 
and attentive to them ; and this was all they could expect of 
him. Eugene was a fine, manly youth of seventeen, gentle 
and winning in all his ways ; and the fond mother could 
hardly conceal her satisfaction, when, at the expiration of a 
week, she realized that her boy was a decided favorite of the 
old man. The boy was too artless to be mercenary ; so he 
resorted to no tricks to win the regards of his uncle. 

John Hungerford was too keenly schooled in human na- 
ture to be deceived by a false show of attention. He read 
his nephew’s noble nature ; he understood it perfectly ; and 
day by day the old man’s wife became more troubled and 
anxious about the prospects of her son. The visit wai 


THREE MILLIONS. 


15 


terminated only when Eugene was obliged to retai n home to 
attend the examination for admission to Hai'vard College. 
The uncle expressed his desire that the visit should be re* 
peated, and Mrs. Hungerford readily promised to come 
again. 

Tom Lynch went home to spend his vacation a few months 
after the departure of the widow and her family. His mother 
imparted to him the appalling intelligence that he was in 
danger of being supplanted in the regards of her husband ; 
but the young man was confident, and by every art and de- 
vice which his ingenuity could suggest, he labored to make 
himself useful and agreeable to his stepfather. His mother 
still dreaded the impending evil. John Hungerford, so far 
as she knew, had made no will. As the case now stood, the 
children of James Hungerford were his sole heirs. Noth- 
ing but a wife’s portion could come to her, and her son 
would be utterly excluded from the division. She did not 
dare to suggest the propriety of his making a will ; but she 
commenced upon a series of hints, and a course of expedi- 
ents, which were intended to effect her purpose. Thus 
months and years wore away, and Eugene Hungerford was 
graduated at Harvard ; but the visit to Baltimore was not 
repeated. 

Long and not very patiently had Mrs. Hungerford been 
waiting for the old man to die. He was aged and feeble, 
and he would be better off in heaven than upon the earth. It 
would be better for him to die, even though she obtained no 
more than her legal share of his estates. More must be ob- 
tained if possible, and while she was hinting and studying 
up expedients, which the superannuated milliomiaire persist- 
ently refused to notice, she died herself : a violent attack of 
disease carried her off even before her son could arrive to 
close her eyes in death. 

John Hungerford was alone in the world again. Perhaps 
his experience of wedded life had not been wholly satisfac- 
tory ; at any rate, he bore bis bereavement with much calm* 
2 


THE WAY OE THE WORLD. 


H 

ness and resignation, and meekly submitted to the necessity 
of supplying the place of the departed one by employing a 
housekeeper. If this sudden death in his little family had 
no other influence upon him, it forcibly reminded him of the 
uncertainty of life. For two whole years he labored upon 
Lis will, elaborating whole pages of details, freely consulting 
his business friends, before he instructed the lawyer to em- 
body his intentions in legal forms. Strange as it may seem, 
he did not send for his brother’s family, as he had intimated 
he should, at least once a year. Mrs. Hungerford wrote to 
him occasionally, and with business-like promptness he an- 
swered her letters ; but no invitation came for the family to 
repeat the visit. After the death of his wife, his sister-in-law 
had even proposed to move to Baltimore, and take care of 
him in his age and feebleness ; but the old man, evading a 
direct reply, continued to study upon the details of his will, 
which document certainly promised to be the crowning work 
of his life. He wrote that he was so much occupied, the 
visit must be deferred ; and he continued to postpone it, until 
one morning his housekeeper found him dead in his bed. 

Three staid, dignified, elderly merchants had been John 
Hungerford’s most intimate friends — friends only in the 
worldly and business sense. They had been his advisers, 
and during those two years of patient toil over his will — the 
master-work of his career — they had been occasional visit- 
ors in the little back parlor where the millionnaire now spent 
most of his time. They had furnished him with all his in- 
formation of the outer world, and assisted him, so far as they 
could, in performing the task on which all his remaining 
energies w*ere concentrated. For two weeks the best lawyer 
in the city had been closeted with John Hungerford during a 
portion of each day ; and the great deed which finally dis- 
posed of the old man’s immense property was completed 
only a few days before his death. Perhaps he felt that he 
had nothing more to live for ; and permitting his energies to 
lelax, this suspension of his wonted activity had hastened his 
death. 


THREE MILLIONS. 


15 


The housekeeper sent for John’s trio of business friends as 
soon as she discovered that the vital spark had fled. One 
after the other they came, and when all had arrived, a solemn 
and dignified conference was held. There were no friends 
to be sent for but the Hungerfords of Poppleton, and Tom 
Lynch, who was attempting to establish himself as a physi- 
cian in an interior town of Ohio, though reports came to 
Baltimore that he was too unsteady to achieve a success. 
Telegraph messages were immediately sent to Mrs. Hunger- 
ford and Tom Lynch. The former, with her family, arrived 
in season to attend the funeral, but the despatch did not 
promptly reach the young physician, and he did not appear. 

John Hungerford went to his grave in greater state than 
he had ever moved in the flesh, for the three eminent mer- 
chants who managed the affair had a high regard for the 
proprieties of the solemn occasion. A long procession of 
carriages, occupied by men and women who were willing to 
join the brilliant funeral cortege for the gloomy excitement 
of the scene, though they had no interest in, and only a few 
had any acquaintance with, the deceased, followed the 
plumed hearse to the cemetery, and the tomb closed upon all 
that was mortal of the Baltimore millionnaire. 

After the old man’s dust had been solemnly disposed of, 
there was an intense curiosity to ascertain what disposition 
he had made of his princely fortune. This was really the 
most interesting question connected with the life or death of 
the departed. Few, if any, asked what he was ; all, what 
he had. Hardly one wanted to know what pleasant memo- 
ries he had left behind him ; all, the sum total of his worldly 
possessions. None but fanatics asked where the old man 
had gone ; but every one, where his fortune was to go. 

What John Hungerford had been doing in the little back 
parlor for the last two years was to be made manifest. It 
had cost the old man fifty years of severe struggles to get his 
three and a half millions ; it had cost him two years of dili- 
gent thought, and what struggles none could know, — it had 


6 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


cost him two years of hard labor, more trying, perhaps, in 
his age and feebleness, than the half century of toil in the 
vigor of his healthy life, — to give it away. The will was 
read. There were present at the reading only the three 
eminent merchants, the Hungerford family from Poppleton, 
and the housekeeper. 

Mrs. Hungerford was quiet and self-possessed. The 
neglect to send for her, as had been arranged with hei 
brother-in-law, to pay the proposed annual visits, had pre- 
pared her to expect nothing more than a simple remem- 
brance. Her son, Eugene, was calm and dignified, but 
there was something in the expression of his manly face 
which indicated his dislike of the proceedings. Like his 
mother, he was independent and self-reliant ; and, very 
likely, he felt that the position of the family before the law- 
yer and the merchants was an exceedingly unpleasant one. 
They were to be regarded as expectants, if not supplicants, 
before the still closed coffers of the dead man ; but Eugene 
repudiated the position. He asked nothing, expected noth- 
ing. He was deeply grateful to his uncle for the means of 
obtaining his education, and he was prepared to be entirely 
satisfied if this proved to be the total of his indebtedness to 
the deceased. 

Julia Hungerford was nineteen, and she was so fair to 
look upon that even the dignified merchants stole frequent 
glances at her, as she sat annoyed and embarrassed, like her 
brothel and her mother, by the awkwardness of the situation. 

The lawyer read, and two mortal hours were consumed 
in the reading; and more of John Hungerford’s life and 
thought was revealed than the world had ever known 
before. No one had ever suspected the millionnaire of any 
family ambition, or of any special afi'ection for the name he 
bore ; but this posthumous document convinced the listen- 
ers that the old man regarded the word “ Hungerford ” as 
the apple of his eye. The two years of hard reflection had 
been employed in devising schemes to prevent the name of 


THREE MILLIONS. l*J 

Hungerford from being forgotten. He had labored to honoi 
it and to perpetuate it. 

The great disappointment of John Hungerford’s life, as the 
truth was educed from the will, was, that no son had blessed 
his lot — no son to be called John Hungerford, to live like a 
prince, and to keep the name alive. The testator, however, 
was not to be wholly balked. He was strenuous for the 
whole name of John Hungerford ; and in spite of his disap- 
pointment, he determined to have a representative in the 
future who should be known and called as he had been 
known and called. It appeared that he had intended at one 
time to make Tom Lynch change his name, and become the 
fortunate owner of the appellation ; but the young man had 
shown a disposition to follow after strange gods, and was 
not therefore a suitable person to support the honor and dig- 
nity of the Hungerford name, and the plan was discarded 
for the one which was now shadowed forth in the will. But 
even this might fail, and the old man, in this event, had 
finally resolved to satisfy himself by rendering immortal and 
glorious the single name of Hungerford, though his hopes 
and expectations still coupled it with the dearly beloved 
John. 

To the end that his intentions might be clearly under- 
stood, the deceased had compelled the unwilling lawyer to 
preface the will with the matter from which the information 
we have given is derived ; and it was estimated that the 
word “ Whereas ” occurred two hundred and some odd 
number of times in the folios devoted to this preliminary 
statement. But this story, in spite of the legal verbiage 
with which it was encumbered, proved to be of the deepest 
interest to all present, even including the eminent merchants, 
whose ideas were generally expressed by figures. 

The reader turned the folios for an hour before he came to 
the pith and cream of the document, the masterpiece of 
John Hungerford’s labors. “ Imprimis” gave to John Les- 
ter, Edward Baker, and Loring Greene, the eminent mer- 
2 • 


i8 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


chants, each the sum of fifty thousand dollars. These gen- 
tlemen were John’s best friends, and he made them his 
executors and trustees for the disposal of his property as 
“ hereinafter mentioned.” To the widow of his late brother 
James he gave twenty thousand dollars. To Julia Hunger- 
ford and Thomas Lynch he gave a like sum. Then were 
mentioned twenty-eight literary, scientific, and charitable 
associations, to each of which the testator gave the sum of 
ten thousand dollars. John Hungerford must have been ter- 
ribly puzzled to find all these names, and without the assist- 
ance of the eminent merchants he would certainly have 
neglected many of them. He was impartial in his be- 
quests, for without regard to the objects or the magnitude 
of the enterprises to which he contributed, he gave to each 
the same sum. 

These bequests, with an allowance of ten thousand dol- 
lars for present expenses of probate — there were no stamps 
then — used up only the half million, which was but a kind 
of flourish on the end of John Hungerford’s fortune, and 
which had accumulated since he retired from active pursuits. 
The grand army of zeros, marshalled by its significant 
three, was yet in thd field, and the three eminent merchants 
actually gasped with anxiety to hear the name of the 
residuary legatee. And now came John Hungerford’s dying 
crotchet; now came the notable scheme by which John 
Hungerford, dead and in his grave, was to be represented in 
the coming generation by a John Hungerford, aliv’^e and 
glorious in the possession of a princely fortune ; or, failing 
the “John,” by which the name of Hungerford, simply, 
was to be honorably sent down to remote ages. 

The whole three millions was to be placed in the hands 
of the eminent merchants, as trustees, who for their valuable 
services were to receive a fixed sum per annum, the whole 
income of which, after deducting the expenses, was to be 
paid to his “beloved nephew,” Eugene Hungerford. 

Eugene did not faint when he heard that he was to be the 


THREE MILLIONS. 


^9 


recipient of one hundred and eighty thousand dollars a year, 
but his motner absolutely gasped for breath. 

The lawyer proceeded. The eminent trustees were to 
retain possession of the three millions, all safely and prout- 
ably invested at the present time, until the before-menboned 
beloved nephew, Eugene Hungerford, had attained the age 
of thirty years ; at which time, if the said Eugene was 
legally married, and was the legal father of a legal son, 
then the said eminert trustees should pay over to the said 
beloved nephew, Eugene Hungerford, the said legal father 
of the said legal son, absolutely and irrevocably the said 
tliree millions, now invested as aforesaid : provided that the 
name of John Hungerford shall be unchangeably given by 
the said legal father to the said legal son. 

Eugene twisted uneasily in his chair. Mrs. Hungerford 
looked very complacent, as though the conditions of the will, 
in her estimation, were not very difficult to be complied with. 
Julia wanted to laugh, but the eminent merchants, who con- 
tinued to glance at her occasionally, were too solemn and 
dignified to permit her to indulge in any levity. 

The reading was not finished. If the said beloved 
nephew was not married when he attained the said age of 
thirty ; or, if married, and being the legal father of a legal 
daughter or daughters only, and not being the said legal 
father of a said legal son ; or if the said son was called by 
any other than the said name of “John Hungerford,” — then 
the three millions was to be shattered and divided into six 
equal parts of half a million each ; one part to be paid to 
the said beloved nephew, Eugene Hungerford ; one part to 
the before-mentioned beloved niece, Julia Hungerford ; one 
part to the son of his late wife, Thomas Lynch ; one part to 
the Hungerford Orphan Asylum ; one part to the Hunger- 
ford Institute for Aged Women ; and one part to the Hun- 
gerford Home for Aged Men. 

Every provision of the will was carefully set forth, and 
nicely protected from any possible misconstruction. John 


20 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

made things strong. It was duly signed and sealed, and 
was witnessed by the twelve proprietors of the twelve near- 
est stores ; for though the testator knew that three witnesses 
were enough, he insisted upon having an army of them, at 
least one half of whom should not be over thirty years of 
age ; so that if any trouble came, some of them could be 
found, and not all of them would have died of old age. 

The reading of the will was completed. The eminent 
merchants and the sharp lawyer congratulated Eugene, his 
mother, and especially his sister. They were astonishingly 
j)olite to the whole family. Eugene tried to be good natured, 
but, with his peculiar temperament, he found it even more 
difficult than if he had been cut off with a shilling. As 
Eugene is the hero of the story, we will not attempt to use 
him up in the first chapter, or even to indicate his views of 
the magnificent position to which he had suddenly been 
elevated. 

Tom Lynch had not yet been heard from, and Eugene, 
after listening to all the trustees had to say, started for Pop- 
pleton with his mother and sister. 


MR. ELIOT BUCKSTONE. 


21 


CHAPTER II. 

MR. ELIOT BU^STONE. 

view from Poppleton Point was very fine. A ma- 
rine painter sat making a sketch where the spray from 
the sea which beat upon the rocks below spattered his patent 
leather boots. He was wholly absorbed in his work, and 
one with a taste for the grand and beautiful, engaged in such 
a task, might well be pardoned for knowing nothing else. 
The Point w^as the eastern boundary of the northern coast 
line of the estuary into which Bell River disembogued. At 
an average distance of half a mile from the shore lay two 
islands, which had been named from their shape The Great 
Bell and The Little Bell. Just above the latter, on the north 
side of the river, was Port Poppleton, a village of four thou- 
sand inhabitants, who were principally engaged in the coast- 
ing and fishing business. 

Above its mouth Bell River made two turns, which gave 
it the form of the letter S. The country was hilly and 
rocky, and the stream had been forced into a tortuous way 
in its path to the sea. Two miles north of the Port was 
another village, within the corporate limits of the town, 
which went by the name of Poppleton Mills. The place 
was a live New England town, with some farming, some 
fishing, some coasting, some ship-building, a great deal of 
♦^rade with Boston and Portland by land and by sea, but the 
principal interest was the cotton factories. 

The mouth of Bell River was surrounded by rocks, and 
the 1 egion to the southward was rather noted for its fine 


22 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


scenery. The gunning and fishing in the vicinity were first 
class. Not only were the finest cod, haddock, perch, and 
tautog caught in the sea off the Port, but the finest pickerel 
and pouts were taken in the river above the Mills, and the 
finest trout in the brooks which flowed into it. It was there- 
fore a paradise for sportsmen and summer idlers, and two 
very comfortable hotels in the lower village were usually well 
filled with visitors for four months in the year. Port Popple- 
ton was rapidly acquiring a reputation as a watering-place, 
on a small scale. ' 

Mr. Eliot Buckstone, marine painter from the city of New 
York, sat on a rock at the extremity of Poppleton Point. 
He had taken a room at the Bell River House for a fortnight, 
and was just now at the height of earthly felicity in the en- 
joyment of the luxuries of the place, not the least of which, 
to his artistic soul, was the view from the Point. He watched 
the green waves, as they rolled up from the sea, and broke 
themselves in flaky spray upon the rocks of the Great Bell. 
This was the scene he was sketching. He had already 
outlined the rocks, with the curling billows shattering 
themselves upon them, and the dilapidated farm-house and 
barn which occupied the highest part of the island. 

“ Help ! help ! ” 

Eliot Buckstone dropped his sketch-book and pencil, and 
sprang to his feet, for the tones were those of a woman. 

“ Help ! help ! ” 

It was the voice of a woman, but the accents were not so 
deeply burdened with terror as the words would seem to in- 
dicate. Mr. Buckstone glanced in the direction from which 
the appeal came, and discovered a small boat, containing a 
female. She uttered no wild screams, she made no extrava- 
gant gestures ; and as her tones, gentle and supplicatoiy as 
they were, had before informed him, she did not appear to 
oe seriously alarmed. The strong tide was bearing the boat 
swiftly through the narrow strait between the Great Bell 
and the north shore. 


MR. ELIOT BUCKSTONT. 


23 


Although the lady, standing up in the boat, did not seem 
to regard her situation as a perilous one, the artist took a 
very different view of it. The wind was blowing fresh from 
the south-west, and the frail craft, already tossed by the great 
waves that rolled up from beyond the Point, was going out 
to sea. The wind and the tide might force it miles from the 
shore, and the lady, if not drowned, would be subjected to a 
long absence and a great deal of suffering. She appealed 
to him for help, or, if not to him, to somebody, for it was 
doubtful whether she had yet seen him. If there was no 
danger, of course she would not ask for assistance. Mr. 
Eliot Buckstone was an artist, and his imagination was 
strong and vivid. To him the lady’s situation at once be- 
came desperate. Without his prompt decision, and his 
strong arm, the interesting supplicant would be swallowed 
up by the remorseless billows, ingulfed by the relentless tide, 
mangled upon the pitiless rocks. 

Mr. Buckstone threw oft' his coat the very instant he dis- 
covered the helpless lady, for though all the matters we have 
mentioned were duly considered, the thoughts flashed through 
his mind as thoughts always should flash through the brain 
of a genius. Mr. Buckstone threw oft' his vest. He did not 
take off either of these garments, for he was an impetuous 
young man, and a lady was in mortal peril — he threw them 
off. Mr. Buckstone kicked oft' his boots, though they were 
of patent leather, and snugly encased a pair of well-formed 
feet ; he did not pull them off by any of the slow and tedious 
expedients known to the wearers of artistic boc ts —he kicked 
them off. 

“ Help ! help ! ” again appealed the lone voyager, tL.a 
time with a little more emphasis, but hardly with more feel- 
ing or more tc.iror. 

Mr. Buckstone rushed down to the water, walked out upon 
a big flat rock, and launched himself upon the stormy tide. 
The boat was coming within a few rods of the Point, and 
having measured with his eye the base and perpendicular of 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


a triangle, the hypothenuse of which was the space between 
himself and the boat, he struck out on the base line, leaving 
the wayward craft to follow the perpendicular. 

The artist swam well, and vigorously breasted the strong 
waves which beat against him. It is hardly more than once 
in a lifetime that a young man has an opportunity to become 
the hero of a romance, and Mr. Eliot Buckstone seemed to 
be determined to make a rich investment on the present 
occasion. It is hardly necessary to say that he intercepted 
the truant boat, as it was in the act of passing the Point, for 
to a young man in his frame of mind, with a helpless female 
before him rushing on to death and misery, failure was as 
impossible as success to a less determined person. He 
grasped the gunwale of the boat, and held on ; he could do 
no more, for, short as was the distance he had accomplished, 
the obstinate waves and the pitch of excitement to which he 
had worked himself up, had completely exhausted him. He 
hung on at the gunwale, puffing like a porpoise torn from 
his native element. 

The imperilled female, now apparently in less peril than 
her gallant deliverer, stood up in the stern of the boat, re- 
garding with intense interest and anxiety the amphibious 
gentleman who had so boldly battled the waves in her be- 
half. While Mr. Eliot Buckstone recovers his breath, let us 
glance at her who had unwittingly caused the enthusiastic 
artist all this trouble and inconvenience. 

She was rather tall ; beautifully proportioned, and exceed- 
ingly graceful. Her complexion was naturally fair, but it 
had been somewhat browned by the summer sun. Her eye 
was large, soft, and blue ; her nose Grecian ; and her lips had 
just curl enough to indicate firmness of purpose. Her face 
and form would have attracted attention anywhere ; but the 
more spiritual the nature, the more elevated the taste, the 
higher the intellectual cultivation, of the beholder, the more 
intense would have been his appreciation of the gentle 
maiden, whom the wind and the waves were wafting to sea. 
when the artist rushed to her assistance. 


MR. ELIOT BUCKSTONE. 


25 


“ I am very sorry to have caused you all this trouble, sir,” 
said the lady, in tones so sweet and soothing, and withal so 
musical, that the marine painter instantly lost all sense of 
fatigue, and felt whole volumes of fresh, pure air pour into 
his empty lungs. 

Eliot Buckstone was not sorry when he saw that face, be- 
held that graceful form, and heard that musical voice. He 
was endowed with a highly sensitive organization, and he 
may be pardoned for the raptures which were kindled into 
being beneath his wet garments. I am inclined to think, 
knowing what he felt in this moment of enthusiasm, that he 
was a fatalist ; that he believed fate or providence had at 
this time, and in this manner, brought him into the presence 
of the tall maiden^ who gazed in pity and gentleness upon 
him. * 

“ No trouble at all, madam,” he replied, as with a vigorous 
movement he climbed over the rail into the boat, to the immi- 
nent risk of swamping the frail craft. 

“ I did not see you, sir, when I called for help,” she added, 
apologetically. 

“ I am glad you did not, if seeing me would have pre- 
vented you from claiming my assistance,” answered Mr. 
Buckstone, as he shook the salt water from his curly locks. 

“ I would not have had you expose yourself in this manner 
on any consideration,” continued the lady, who had seated 
herself when the artist climbed into the boat. 

“ Do not complain of me for what I have done, for I assure 
you it has been a greater pleasure to me than to you.” 

“ You are very kind, sir, but I must regret tliat you adopted 
this method of assisting me.” 

“What other method could I have adopted.''” asked Mr. 
Buckstone, not a little puzzled by the protest of the rescued 
damsel. 

He was a man of the w^orld, and though he had been in 
the habit of hearing ladies pretend to object to the trouble 
tliey might have caused, lie felt that they regarded any sacri- 
3 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


z6 

fices of time or comfort as expressions of devotion, highly 
flattering and complimentary to them. He believed that the 
gentleman who incurred the greatest risk for a lady had the 
sincerest admiration for her. In the prei-ent instance, Mr. 
Buckstone realized that the lady actually regretted the annoy- 
ance and discomfort which she had caused him. 

“ Gentlemen do not usually put to sea like seals and por- 
poises,’’ replied the lady, with a soothing smile, the first lie 
liad seen, and which rendered his case even more desperate 
than before. 

“ How do they put to sea?” 

“ In boats.” 

“ But I had no boat.” 

“ Perhaps you might have found one at the salt works be- 
yond the Point.” 

“ Perhaps I might — who knows ! ” replied Mr. Buckstone 
with a rather vacant expression on his handsome face, fo' 
the idea of resorting to a boat when a lady was in peril, 
looked absolutely preposterous to him, especially if the boat 
had to be searched for before it could be found. 

“ I beg you will not think I am ungrateful,” continued the 
lady, noticing the shade of discontent that appeared on the 
face of the artist. 

“ By no means, madam.” 

“ I am really very grateful to you ; and I was only sony 
to have caused you so much trouble and discomfort. I was 
not in great danger ” . 

“Not in great danger?” interposed Mr. Buckstone, puz- 
zled by the lady’s apparent intention to underrate his ser 
vices. 

“ Did you think I was?” 

“ I certainly did.” 

“ Then I am all the more obliged to you for your kind 
exertions in my favor.” 

“ Don’t mention it ; but you will excuse mo if I say I think 
you are the o.;olest lady it was ever my good fortune to meet.” 


MR. ELIOT BUCKSTONE. 


27 


“Indeed, you misunderstand me entirely,” piotested she, 
a slight flush mantling her cheeks, while she looked exceed* 
ingly troubled and annoyed. “ I am very, very gi'ateful to 
you.” 

“ O, I do not doubt that.” 

“ You think that I am cool, but I assure you my heart is 
warm with thankfulness. I am just as much obliged to you 
as though I had been in peril of my life, and all the more so 
because you so regarded my situation.” 

“ I only meant that you were very cool in view of your 
danger. How a lady could be as composed as you were, 
when alone in a boat drifting out to sea, is more than I can 
comprehend. That was what I meant. I would not by any 
means accuse you of undervaluing my poor sei'vice.” 

“ I am relieved,” added she, her smile meaning even more 
than her words. “ I do not think I am lessening the value 
of your efforts in my behalf when I say that I should not 
have been very much alarmed if I had been sure of going out 
to sea. It is now only the middle of the forenoon : I should 
have been picked up by some boat or vessel bound in or out 
of the river.” 

“ I must say you have more courage and self-possession 
than I ever happened to meet with in a lady before.” 

“ I am quite used to the water.” 

“ I see that you are,” laughed the artist, rising from his 
seat on the thwart, where all this time he had been resting 
from his labors, while the boat continued to drift out to sea. 

“Have you any oars?” he asked, after he had glanced 
into the bottom of the boat. 

“ I have not, unfortunately. If I had I should not have 
been here.” 

“ Then I am very thankful that you had none ; ” whereat 
the maiden blushed, and looked troubled again. 

“ I lost the oars overboard,” she added, without noticing 
the pretty speech of the gallant young man. 

“ I am glad you did, Miss ,” and he looked up into the 

fair face of the lady. 


28 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ Miss Kingman ; but I am very sorry I lost the oars, for 
you are as wet as a fish, and you may take cold.” 

“ I never take cold ; I am above such infirmities.” 

‘‘ I hope vou will not, but a cold bath is not comfortable on 
a chilly day like this.” 

“ This is a beautiful day, and my heart is warm enough 
just now to generate sufficient caloric for my whole body.” 

Miss Kingman did not, perhaps, precisely comprehend this 
bold speech. She glanced back at the Point, past which the 
boat had drifted, and was now tossing about like a chip on 
the great waves of the open bay. 

“ You think we had better get back to the land,” contin- 
ued Mr. Buckstone, interpreting her glance at the shore to 
mean this. 

“ I am not at all frightened ; my father is an old sailor, and 
I have always lived on the sea shore.” 

“ U^oon my word, I am heartily rejoiced that you are not 
alarmed at your situation, for really I can’t see that I have 
done anything more by my swim, than to give you a com- 
panion in your voyage out to sea,” replied the artist, as he 
glanced over the boat again in search of something that 
would serve as an oar. 

The lady was silent ; perhaps disliking to say what she 
may have believed — that a companion like the young artist 
was more dangerous than the wind and the waves. 

Whether she thought so or not, it was true in this case, 
though'by no fault on his part ; and it would have been better 
for her to be buried in the depth of the ocean, with nothing 
but the wind and the waves to chant her requiem, than to 
have met Eliot Buckstone. 

“ What shall I do ? I have no oars, and the thwarts are 
all fastened into the boat.” 

“ 1 don’t know, really,” she replied, “ what you can do. I 
wondered, when I saw you swimming out, what you in- 
tended.” 

“I supposed you had oars,” answered Mr. Buckstone, 


MR. ELIOT BUCKSTONE. 


2C 


stimg by the implied, but not intended, reproach for his 
thoughtless measures. 

“ If I had had oars, I should not have needed your assist- 
ance.” 

“ Then I am only an encumbrance to you. I suppose the 
boat would live longer in a sea with one person in it than 
with two. I have actually added to your peril. Miss King- 
man, instead of removing you from it. What a blunderer 
I am ! ” 

“You wrong yourself. Whatever the practical result, you 
intended to do me a great service, and I assure you I appre- 
ciate it as such.” 

“ I think it would be better for me now to leave you, and 
swim ashore.” 

“ Swim ashore ! ” 

“ And save you from my presence.” 

“You wrong me now, sir.” 

“ I have come to the conclusion, that in your estimation, I 
have made a fool of myself.” 

“Far from it, sir,” protested she, earnestly. 

“ That you owe me thanks only for my good intentions, 
which have stupidly increased your danger rather than 
diminished it.” 

“ I have no thought but gratitude.” 

“ For my good intentions, and contempt for my blunder- 
ing work.” 

“ I hope I have not offended you. I did not mean to say 
anything unkind. I am sure I owe you ” 

“ Nothing, Miss Kingman. We are not more than half a 
mile from the Point, and I will swim ashore.” 

“ Not on any account. I shall never forgive myself for 
my careless words.” 

“ But when I get ashore, I will procure a boat, and come 
— or send some one — to your relief.” 

“You are vexed with me, sir. I did not mean to say a 
word which would wound you.” 

3 * 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


SO 

“ Neither have you.” 

“ And I do not undei*value your kind exertions in my be- 
half. Do not attempt to swim ashore in such a sea as this,” 
pleaded the lady, as she saw him look significantly over the 
side. 

“ I can easily do so.” 

“You aie nearly exhausted by your eftbrts in swimming 
off to the boat.” 

“ That was only because I was so much alarmed for your 
safety.” 

“ How noble and kind you were ! And how cruel and 
unkind I have been to disparage your efforts ; but I did not 
intend to disparage them,” protested she, with an earnest- 
ness which entirely removed the feeling of chagrin that lin- 
gered in the mind of the enthusiastic artist. “ I hope you 
will forgive me, sir.” 

“ With all my heart ; ” and it was with all his heart, for 
he could not resist the eloquence of that soft eye, and those 
musical tones, albeit his vexation was caused wholly by the 
feeling that the fair stranger did not appreciate him, rather 
than his exertions in her behalf. 

“ I cannot express to you how grateful I am, and I would 
not have you think me unkind for all the world.” 

Mr. Buckstone was satisfied. How could he be otherwise 
after such liberal concession on the part of the lady? He 
now occupied himself in an examination of the interior struc- 
ture of the boat. One of the narrow ceiling boards was 
loose, and without asking to whom the craft belonged, he 
tore it from its place. With his pocket-knife he soon fash- 
ioned it into something that had a remote resemblance to 
in oar. 

“ Now, Miss Kingman, if you will permit me to sit in the 
stern of the boat, I will try to scull her ashore,” said he, as 
he moved aft for this purpose. 

“ I am sure you will do all you intended.” replied she, as 
she rose from her seat. 


MR. ELIOT BtJCKSTONE. 


31 


The artist took her hand to assist her to another seat. It 
was a delicate and prettily shaped hand, and Mr. Buckstone, 
in spite of the emergency of the moment, glanced at it witb an 
artist’s eye. He was sufficiently enraptured by the touch to 
press the hand, if he had dared to do so ; but he prudently 
refrained, and placed himself in the stern with the oar he 
had improvised. 

Mr. Buckstone, in the pursuit of his art, had accustomed 
himself to marine occupations. He succeeded in putting the 
boat’s head up to the wind, but that was about all he succeed- 
ed in doing, for the pine board twisted and behaved itself in a 
most unseamanlike manner ; or Mr. Buckstone did, for the 
fault lay somewhere between them ; and, as far as the boat- 
man or the lady could discover, no progress was made. Then 
le essayed to row the stubborn craft ; but she whirled around, 
and resolutely went to seaward with the wind and tide. Miss 
Kingman hoped he would not wear himself out in fruitless 
exertions ; but Mr. Buckstone seemed to have “ enlisted for 
the war,” and to be determined to carry his point in spite of 
the obstinacy of the boat, the treachery of the oar, and the 
adverse influence of the wind and tide. Finally, after re- 
sorting to various expedients, he turned the craft towards the 
lighthouse on The Great Bell, so that her intended course 
was diagonal with the force of the breeze and the current, 
and pulled his oar on the seaward side. By this strategy, 
with the utmost exertion at the pine board, he realized that 
he was making a little progress through the water. 

The labor was very great, and the headway very slight. 
It would be hours before he could reach the lighthouse at 
this rate, and he was soon discouraged by the prospect before 
him. But what added to his discomfort and discouragement 
was the fact that his beautiful companion sat behind him, and 
he could derive no inspiration in his arduous labors from the 
contemplation of her sweet face and graceful form. Mr. 
Buckstone was really in no haste to reach the shore, and 
nothing but a proper regard for appearances and the projiri- 


32 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


eties of the occasion induced him to struggle so hard to at* 
tain what he did not wish to attain. The marine painter 
was young, sentimental, and susceptible. Never before in 
flesh and blood had he so distinctly seen his ideal of a beau- 
tiful woman, as in the being who now sat behind him in the 
boat. In spite of his wet garments, and in spite of the ter- 
rors of the ocean upon which the boat was drifting, ^ e found 
himself very pleasantly situated, and not the least in a hurry 
to escape from the perils which were as yet too far off to be 
dreaded. There was a greater peril nearer at hand, of which 
neither of them was conscious. 

“ There comes a boat out of the river ! ” exclaimed the 
lady, just as Mr. Buckstone had given up his useless labor, 
and turned round to gaze into the speaking eyes of his lovely 
companion. 

“ I am sorry for it,” said he, incautiously ; “ that is, I am 
sorry it did not come before.” 

Miss Kingman was eighteen years old, and if she was de* 
ceived by the change in his words, she was undeceived when 
she felt the earnest gaze of admiration he bestowed upon 
her. The artist turned, and saw a sail boat dash out from 
behind the point of The Great Bell, on which the lighthouse 
was located. 

“ She makes good time, and you will soon be relieved of 
my presence. Miss Kingman,” said he, with a sigh. 

She hoped so, but it would have been cruel to say it. 

“ It is Mr. Hungerford,” continued Miss Kingman, when 
the sail boat had come within hailing distance ; and there 
was a smile of pleasure on her countenance which did not 
escape the keen observation of the artist. 

“And pray, who is Mr. Hungerford?” he asked. 

“Haven’t you heard of him? Eugene Hungerford, tht 
heir of the Baltimore millionnaire?"' 

Mr. Buckstone had never heard of him ; but he hailed the 
«ail boat, and begged the loan of a pair of oars. 


I 


THE HUNGERFORD FAMILY. 


33 


CHAPTER 111. 

THE HUNGERFORD FAMILY. 

' I ^HE Hungerford family, after uncle John had been sol- 
emnly and ceremoniously committed to the tomb, re- 
turned to Poppleton. Everything had a kind of unsubstantial 
look to them, as though they had been suddenly lifted from 
the cares and trials of this sublunary sphere to a region 
of golden clouds which were very beautiful to look upon, 
but which would not bear the solid tramp of mortal feet. 
Whereas they had gone to Baltimore, ten days before, in very 
moderate and even humble circumstances, now they were 
rolling in wealth ; at least the will of the late John Hunger- 
ford had so declared them to be, though they found it exceed- 
ingly difficult to realize the stupendous change which had 
come over them. They reached Poppleton with all these 
doubts unsolved, and with these cloud}^ sensations still hang- 
ing about them. 

Mrs. Hungerford was the most practical person of the 
three. She was a well-educated, well-informed lady, who 
knew something of books, and a great deal of the world. 
She had brought up her little family on three hundred dol- 
lars a year, and she had necessarily been a very practical 
person ; but as she journeyed home from Baltimore, she was 
troubled with a dread lest the golden clouds should suddenly 
roll away, the misty curtain be lifted, and the bright dream 
of ease, luxury, and happiness be dissipated even before she 
had tasted its sweetness. Twenty thousand dollars had been 
left to her, independently of all contingencies ; and this to :i 


r 


34 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

woman of high aims, who had been struggling all her life 
with the inconveniences of a small income, was a fortune in 
itself. By degrees, as the train thundered along towards her 
home, she reasoned herself into the belief that her own legacy 
and that of her daughter were as real as the solid earth be- 
neath them. Of the golden clouds, the silver fountains, and 
the glittering mists from Pactolian streams, that enveloped 
her son Eugone, she had not the courage to think. Her own 
little fortune was large enough and suggestive enough to 
satisfy the highest flights of her imagination. 

So far as thought and feeling were concerned, the Hun- 
gerfbrd family were only one individual. I do not mean to 
say there was never any diftcrence of opinion among its 
members, for that would be saying they were all dolts and 
fools, and that the cottage in which they dwelt was the 
dullest and most insipid place in the world ; but there was a 
rich harmony of thought and feeling, even while thought and 
feeling ran in different channels. Simple-minded, Christian 
people, of intelligence and cultivation, always remarked what 
a beautiful family the Hungerfords were. The mother and 
her children were unselfish ; they lived for each other, and 
there was not a joy or a sorrow for one that was not for all. 
It made no diflerence, therefore, what members of the family 
had been mentioned in the will of John Hungerford as the 
recipients of legacies, or which one as the residuary legatee ; 
by the ties of nature, what belonged to one belonged to all ; 
and if the millionnaire had known them better, he mighi 
have left his bounty to the whole, instead of mentioning in- 
dividuals. 

Eugene Hungerford appeared to take his altered circum- 
stances with the utmost composure ; but he only appeared to 
do so. While he was universally acknowledged to be a 
generous, noble, and high-minded young man, he had the 
reputation of being odd and strange. He never did things 
as other people did them ; not apparently for the sake of be- 
ing odd and strange, but because he had a will and a way of 


THE HUNGERFORD FAMILY. 


35 


his own. As the train bore him north, he did not seem to 
be elated : nor was he ; for, like his mother and his sister, he 
was troubled with that feeling of insecurity and unsubstan- 
tialness — the fear that things would not work according to 
the programme laid down in John Hungerford’s will. Per- 
haps the old man was crazy, and had made his magnificent 
will without the means of doing a tithe of what the labored 
document proposed to accomplish. He had hoard of men 
making wills who had not a dollar to leave behind them. 

But in spite of this want of confidence in the reality of the 
golden era which had dawned upon him, he could not help 
building castles in the air: certain brilliant projects flitted 
through his mind, some relating to personal comforts, luxu- 
ries, and enjoyments, and others to the reformation and im- 
provement of the world at large, but more especially to the 
world of Poppleton society ; though this, as being within the 
sphere of his knowledge and experience, was only the repre- 
sentative of a general idea. “ No pent-up Utica” was to con- 
tract his powers, when he became the sole possessor of the 
three millions. When he did ! Eugene regarded the terms 
of the will as contingent, rather than conditional. They 
were disagreeable to him. He did not relish them. Tc 
have the holiest and dearest relations of life even mentioned 
in connection with money was repulsive to him. 

In a worldly point of view, he must marry as soon as prac- 
ticable ; otherwise the contingency which would give him the 
three millions, absolutely, could not occur. There was cer- 
tainly a worldly inducement for him to make some lady ^Irs. 
Eugene Hungerford. He did not like it. Why should he 
marry, if he did not wish to do so? Why should he be 
bribed to enter into the holy state of matrimony? He could 
not very clearly define to himself his feelings on this delicate 
point ; but there was a certain sense of compulsion which 
fretted and annoyed him, and which tempted him to be ob- 
stinate even against his moral, social, and pecuniary interests. 
To be compelled to marry in order to obtain the three mil- 


36 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


lions, went exactly across the grain of his sensitive and high- 
strung nature. If the question had been between the three 
millions and taking to his bosom one whom he did not love, 
one to whom he was indifferent, he would not have hesitated 
an instant in making a decision, even if poverty and single 
blessedness had been the alternative. 

But Eugene Hungerford was doomed to be rich in spite 
of himself. No obstinacy or hardship could deprive him of 
his entire wealth — always supposing that John Hungerfoid’s 
will was not a vision. He was to receive the income of 
the three millions for seven years ; and then, if the conditions 
were not complied with, he was to have the sixth part of 
the whole sum. Let him be as obdurate as he pleased, he 
could hardly help being a millionnaire ; let him be denied 
the blessed boon of a little John Hungerford in the future, 
and then even a fortune of which he had never been extrava- 
gant enough to dream, would still be coming to him. His 
position would not be a very hard one, though he should 
choose to be ugly and uncompromising. 

With this view he came back to the original question. Why 
should he marry if he did not wish to marry? Why should 
he call his first born son John if it did not suit him so to call 
him ? But in this connection there came up before him, un- 
bidden, the image of a beautiful girl, upon whom he had long 
looked with admiration, and to whose virtues and gentleness 
his heart had yielded homage. She was all that he could 
ask for as the paitner of his joys and his sorrows in the pil- 
grimage of life, though never before had he ventured to think 
of her as his wife. Though she was poor like himself, 
though her family relations were overshadowed by griefs 
and sorrows, she was so fair and so good, that crowds of 
suitors thronged her path. She could choose from a score, 
if not a hundred, and perhaps her choice was already made. 

This beautiful girl was Mary Kingman, whom we left in 
the boat with Eliot Buckstone. Though only twenty, she 
had taught the grammar school at Poppleton Mills, and the 


THE HUNGERFORD FAMILY. 


37 


one at the Port. Her last service had been in the High 
School, and she had just resigned her situation there on ac- 
count of family troubles. She had been a pupil in this 
school with Eugene Hungerford, where a strong friendship 
had grown up between them. It was not love — they were 
too joung. On his return from college, where, to save ex- 
pense, he had taken to the study of the law in the office of 
Squire Perkins at the Port, he saw her only occasionally. 
The future had been too uncertain to permit him to think of 
marriage ; and though he still cherished his early regard for 
her, he prudently refrained from committing himself or her 
to any expression of the feeling which both evidently ente.^- 
tained. All this was changed now ; he could give her a 
home, a palace ; he could crown her with golden wreaths, 
and make her the queen of the county ; but above all, he 
could redeem her from the wasting bondage to which her 
domestic relations subjected her. 

Thus thought Eugene Hungerford as he travelled home- 
ward, and in spite of the vein of obstinacy in his nature, 
there was a fair prospect that the expectations of the de- 
ceased uncle would be realized. Mary Kingman was an 
angel of light in his future path, and he could not turn 
from the bright vision, even to become a martyr to his high 
sense of duty, and thus wrong himself out of the three 
millions. 

In due time the famil}' got out of the cars at Poppleton 
Mills, through which the railroad from Boston passed, and 
took ihe stage, that made two trips a day from the Port. 

The marine village lay exactly two miles due south of the 
manufacturing village, across the space included in the lower 
half of the S formed by the winding of Bell River. The 
road was through a rocky, hilly region for the first mile, 
abounding in glens and steeps which were beautifully pictu- 
resque. One mile from the Port the great turnpike to the 
north-east, over which the mail between Boston and Portland 
had been carried before railroads were built, crossed th^ 
♦ 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


S8 

Mills road, forming an acute angle with it. In this angle 
was the cottage of James Hungerford. 

Twenty-four years ago, when the factory agent was about 
to build a cage for the bird he had caught, he purchased all 
the land lying in the northern acute angle formed by the 
two roads, extending to the river and a cross road from the 
turnpike to the Mills. James Hungerford believed that Pop- 
pleton, with its valuable water power, and its maritime ad- 
vantages, would become a great city, though it was then 
only in an embryo state. The tract of land he had pur- 
chased appeared to be of no practical value, and he had 
given only twelve hundred dollars for it. About fifty acres 
of it on the turnpike was level enough for cultivation, though 
there were several eligible sites for building on the Mills 
road. On one of these, at the forks of the roads, he had 
built his house. 

People of practical sense laughed at James when he 
bought this land ; said that “ a fool and his money were soon 
parted,” and other sharp things, which the purchaser was 
too independent to heed. When Poppleton was a citj^, his 
harvest would come. He had leased it as a pasture for 
enough to pay his taxes and keep the fences in repair ; but 
four and twenty years had failed to realize his hope. Pop- 
pleton had grown amazingly, but still his wild lands were 
not in demand. 

Pine Hill, as this rough territory was called, was a favor- 
ite resort of Eugene ; and when the vision of three millions 
dawned upon him, he could not help thinking what a para- 
dise money would make of it. He could not have found a 
region in the whole state so admirably adapted to the im- 
provements which his taste coveted. He knew just where 
the mansion should be located on the turnpike, just where 
the stable must be placed, just where certain roads should 
be built, and just where certain summer houses and “ lazy 
places ” were to be constructed, in order to bring into being 
the most splendid domain the world had ever seen. Bui 


THE HUNGERFORD FAMILY. 


39 


then there were the doubts in regard to the reality of his 
present situation, and he permitted Pine Hill to bloom foi 
the present in its own wild grandeur. 

“ Home again, mother ! ” exclaimed he, as he assisted 
Mrs. Hungerford and Julia to alight from the stage. 

“ Yes, and I am glad to get home.” 

‘‘ So am I,” added Julia. “ I am tired out.” 

The neighbor’s wife who lived opposite saw them come, 
and hastened over with the key of the cottage, for they hatl 
no servants to keep house for them during their absence. 
The good woman at once made a fire, and began to get tea 
for the weary travellers. Very likely she wished to know 
how much money the Baltimore millionnaire had left to his 
poor relations, for the newspapers had not yet blazoned to 
the world the provisions of the will ; but she asked no ques- 
tions till the family sat down to tea. Mrs. Hungerford then 
told her that she and Julia had each received a legacy of 
twenty thousand dollars, which was magnificent enough to 
absorb the kind neighbor’s whole attention ; and she forgot 
to ask any more questions, being in haste to go out and cir- 
culate the astounding intelligence that the Hungerfords had 
got forty thousand dollars. Eugene, therefore, to his great 
satisfaction, escaped her congratulations and her wondering 
exclamations. After tea he walked over Pine Hill. 

Everything went on as usual in the Hungerford family. 
Doubtless great plans were laid, and great expectations were 
indulged ; but nothing was done, and people wondered that 
they did not dress in silks and satins, and buy a carriage. In 
the course of a week, the papers had the news. Then every- 
body looked upon Eugene Hungerford as a money prince, 
and treated him with the utmost deference. The othcers 
of the Poppleton Bank bowed low to him, and both villages 
wondered what he would do with his money. Eugene kept 
as cool as he could, and tried to be indifferent to the excite- 
ment of which he was the cause and centre. The only ex- 
travagance in which he had been known to indulge was the 


40 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

piu chase of a beautiful sail boat, which he had long coveted. 
Eugene was a man of large lungs, and it required the whole 
atmosphere to inflate them. He was, therefore, devoted to 
out-door exercise, and his keenest enjoyment was derived 
from the ocean. This boat had been purchased partly with 
reference to the expected visit of an old college friend, one 
Dick Birch, who had promised to spend a week with him 
In July. 

July came two months after the return of the family from 
Baltimore. Eugene had become in a measure accustomed 
to his situation, and had come to realize the full meaning of 
John Hungerford’s will. Two or three times he had met 
Mary Kingman. He had blushed ; she had blushed ; but he 
was not quite ready to say what he had to say to her. He 
was not sure that some less prudent young man was not 
already wooing her. He could not ask if she was still 
free ; he could not ask her, or any other person, such a ques- 
tion ; and so he waited for the future to solve the problem, 
and open the way for him. But each time he saw her, 
added to the intensity of his desire to possess her. 

The stage stopped before the cottage door, and out jumped 
Dick Birch. A small valise for clothes, and a large pack- 
age of fishing rods, game bags, fish baskets, two guns, and 
other sporting gear, were placed on the ground before the 
arrival was discovered. Eugene, who was just returning 
from a tramp over Pine Hill, rushed to the spot. 

“Well, Dick, old boy, how are you? I am glad to see 
you.” 

“Ah, Hungerford, I am rejoiced to meet you,” replied 
Dick, as he grasped the extended hand of his fiiend. “ But 
1 was in some doubt about coming.” 

“In doubt? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Why so ? ” 

“ I have heard bad stories about you.” 

“ Do you mean so ? ” 


THE HUNGERFORD FAMILY. 


41 


“Upon my word I do. I heard some old fellow do'«wn in 
Baltimore had died, and left you three millions, or some- 
thing of that sort.” 

“ Such has been my misfortune, but not my fault. 1 
didn’t die and leave all that money to a graceless scamp ; so 
I am not to blame.” 

“ Then it’s true.” 

“Conditionally, it is all true; but, in any event, I have 
had at least a million thrust upon me.” 

“ Poor fellow !” said Dick, with a mock sigh. “ But how 
do you feel ? ” 

“ As I always did.” 

“ Is that so? ” 

“ Undoubtedly.” 

“ A million is enough to spoil any fellow ; three millions 
would ruin an angel. I had my doubts about coming.” 

“Why?” 

“ Didn’t know that you would care to see me now.” 

“ Dick, you don’t speak the truth. You had no doubts.” 

“ Three million dollars is a great deal of money ; so is 
one million.” 

“ Did you think it would make me forget my friends?” 

“ No, I did not think so ; but hang me if one can tell 
what effect money will have on a man.” 

“ I can’t tell what effect it will have on me, but I do know 
that it will not cheat me out of my friends. Dick, I am de- 
lighted to see you. I have been anticipating your visit with 
the keenest satisfaction. I have something laid out for every 
day. I have just bought a boat for your sake.” 

“ Well, I reckon you are the same old fellow, after all,” 
laughed Dick. 

“ I know I am. 1 want to talk with you about the future, 
too ; about this money, with which 1 am to be bored. You 
have a soul, Dick ; and you can understand me, if any 
fellow can. I want your advice.” 

“ I don’t belong to the breed of Solomons, but I won’t 

4 * 


42 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


charge you anything for my ad\ice, though I am a law- 
yer.” 

“ Thank you, Dick. Now come into the house, and we 
will make you as comfortable as we can. We don’t live 
like millionfiaires^ but a cheerful welcome makes a soft 
couch.” 

Engene led the way into the sitting-room, and the guest 
v/as introduced to Mrs. Hungerford, who gave him a kind 
and motherly greeting. 

“Where is Julia, mother?” asked Eugene, when he saw 
that liis sister was not present. 

“ Gone to the post office ; she will return presently.” 

“ Yes, where’s Julia? ” laughed Dick Birch. “ I want tc 
see her. In fact, I don’t know that I should have come if it 
hadn’t been for seeing her.” 

“ Yes, you would, Dick ; tell the truth.” 

“ I wanted to see her, at any rate. Fellows don’t often 
speak of their sisters, Mrs. Hungerford, as Eugene did when 
we were at college together.” 

“ Well, I think she deserves all that he may have said of 
her,” said the matron. 

“ Come, Dick, I will show you your room ; ” and loaded 
with valise, guns, fishing rods, and game bags, the young 
men went up stairs. 

When they came down, Julia had returned, and she was 
formally introduced to the guest, of whom she had heard 
encomiums before, bordering upon the extravagant. Dick 
was not a handsome man, like Mr. Eliot Buckstone, whom 
we left in the boat with Miss Kingman ; neither was he ugly 
or ill made. He had a sharp, bright eye, and his face was 
noble rather than handsome. He looked like a man of intel- 
lect, of high purposes, and grand ideavj, rather than one of 
those masculine monstrosities whom some weak-minded 
females call “ pretty.” Bah ! the idea is nauseating. To be 
pretty is the prerogative of young ladies, though Heaven de- 
fend them if this be all they have ’ 


THE rfUNGERFORD FAMILY. 


43 


Julia was not very pretty, though none would have called 
her homely. Perhaps she was a little disposed to be “ strong 
minded ; ” not in the offensive sense, and only enough so to 
have a certain contempt for things weak and effeminate. 
She was not afraid of spiders, or even of striped snakes. 
She had actually read Locke and Bacon, as well as Scott 
and Dickens. 

She had heard a great deal about Dick Birch, and was 
prepared to see a miracle of all that is grand and noble in 
man. She blushed slightly when she met the full gaze of 
liis sharp eye, and took his offered hand. 

“ This is the great moment of my life. Miss Hungerford,” 
s lid the guest. “ You have been set forth to me as a prin- 
cess among sisters.” 

“ And you to me as a prince among friends,” she replied. 

When you are a candidate for the presidency, I shall cer- 
tainly vote for you if woman’s rights are recognized by 
that time.” 

“Thank you. I shall certainly be elected then; though, 
perhaps, you would like to know my principles before you 
give me your suffrage.” 

“ Probably you will have none by that time.” 

“ I certainly shall, if, when I reach that bad eminence, I 
can make up my mind beforehand which is to be the win- 
ning side. Do you take me for a politician?” 

“ I hope you won’t quarrel in the beginning,” interposed 
Eugene. 

“ I hope not ; but I forgot I had a letter for you. Eugene,” 
said Julia, as she handed him a large envelope, post-marked 
Baltimore. 

“ Excuse me, Dick,” said he, as he opened the package. 

It contained, among other papers, a draft for fifty thou- 
sand dollars, forvi arded by the eminent merchants, trustees 
under John Hungerford’s will. It was the income which 
had accrued before and since the death of the millionnaire 


44 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


There were two other drafts for the legacies due Mrs. 
Hungerford and Julia. 

“ Fifty thousand dollars ! That is more money than I 
ever saw,” exclaimed Eugene. 

“ May Heaven be kind to you ! ” added Dick. 

“ After tea, you will tell me what to do with it, Dick.” 

“ I shrink from the task.” 

Just before sunset the young men strolled over Pine Hill. 
Eugene pointed out the spot on which he purposed to build 
his mansion. Dick approved it, and an aquatic excursion 
for the next day was planned before they returned. 


OFF THE GREAT BELL. 




CHAPTER IV. 

OFF THE GREAT BELL. 

W E should delight to linger with our readers around the 
pleasant and happy home of the Hungerfords ; but 
scenes more exciting than the quiet of domestic life lie 
before us, and we must hasten to them. After breakfast 
Eugene and Dick, on their way to the boat, stopped at the 
Poppleton Bank, in the Port, to leave the drafts, which 
were payable in Boston, for collection. Eugene did the 
President, who happened to be there, the honor to inform 
him that he should make the bank the place of deposit for his 
funds, and desired the fifty thousand dollars to be placed to 
his credit. This was his first actual transaction as a moneyed 
man, and what had before seemed to be a vision was now 
an undoubted reality. 

His income was fifteen thousand dollars a month, or five 
hundred dollars a day, and he began to be conscious of the 
painful necessity of spending some of it before the Popple- 
ton Bank should be overwhelmed by the surplus. At pres- 
ent he was going out in his boat, and could not afford the 
time to consider the matter in detail ; but he hoped, before 
many weeks elapsed, to make his money fly with tolerable 
rapidity. He had schemes enough in his head, but only 
lime and thought could reduce them to practice. 

“ Upon my soul, Hungerford, I am afraid of you,’’ said 
Dick, as they left the bank. 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ Why, all this money ! My dear fellow, you are almost 


46 


THE WAV OE THE WORLD. 


as badly off as John Jacob Astor and Stephen Girard 
were ! ” 

“ Stop till we get into the boat before you begin. Let me 
tell you what I am going to do.” 

They reached the wharf at the foot of the* main street, 
where the boat was moored. As we are not writing a 
nautical romance, we will not trouble the reader with a 
description of the boat, though she was a fine little craft. 
Both Eugene and Richard were somewhat “salt” in theii 
tendencies, and were familiar with the science of boating. 
The breeze was fresh, and after running by the point of The 
Little Bell, the boat went “ wing and wing” down the river. 

“Now, Hungerford, w'hat are you going to do?” asked 
Dick, as he settled himself back in a comfortable position on 
the cushioned seat in the standing-room. 

“ My ideas are rather crude, so far,” replied Eugene. 

“You are going to get married, in the first place, or you 
are sure to lose the three millions,” added Dick, to whom all 
the provisions of John Hungerford’s will had been detailed 
on the preceding evening. 

“Perhaps not, Dick; I don’t know yet;” and Eugene 
thought of Mary Kingman. 

“ You don’t know ! ” 

“ I do not.” 

“ Come, come, Hungerford ; dofft play off in that manner 
with me. Of course you intend to marry as soon as the 
thing can be decently done.” 

“ I don’t intend any such thing. I shall take my own 
time, and do exactly the same that I should have done if 
John Hungerford had died without making a will.” 

“ Are you going to be mulish ? ” 

“ By no means. Marriage, in my estimation, is a very 
serious thing, and I will not be driven into it, or driven out 
of it, by any purely selfish considerations.” 

“ Certainly not.” 

“ Three million dollars will not induce me to trade my- 


OFF THE GREAT BELL. 


47 


self off, like a swine in the market, to any living woman 
and three millions shall not induce me to purchase even 
the most fascinating creature that ever daintily trod this 
footstool.” 

“I understand that; but you are giving your uncle’s will 
a very narrow and bigoted interpretation. The terms are 
liberal ; you have four or five years given you toi become a 
Benedick ; and you are not hampered by any conditions ir 
regard to the lady. Don’t attempt to make a martyr of 
yourself.” 

“ I have no such thought.” 

“ But you have a little vein of obstinacy in your nature, 
which prompts you to go against your own interest. I don’t 
mean your pecuniary interest, but your moral, social, and 
domestic welfare. Hungerford, if an angel of light should 
suddenly appear before you, and declare that you might go 
to heaven by reading the fifth chapter of Matthew every 
morning during the rest of your lifetime, I think you would 
be content to stay out of heaven rather than comply with the 
conditions.” 

“ I certainly should? ” 

“ You should? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Because you would deem it your duty to be on the off 
side.” 

“ No ; if an angel made such a declaration as that to me, 
I should set him down as a humbug, for I do not believe 
that heaven is to be purchased by compliance with a form ; 
if it were, it would not be worth having. I believe in 
heaven, and I hope to reach it when I die. Your simile 
suits my argument better than it does your own. I shall 
endeavor to live a true and good life, not as the price which 
I am to pay for heaven, but because it is right that I should 
so live — because God requires such a life of me. My prayer 
shall not be the weary, toilsome, distasteful struggle of a 
doubting spirit, of which heaven is the guerdon, but my 


48 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


heart-breathing to Him who made me, who loves me, and to 
whom I am always grateful for his mercies. When I read 
the fifth chapter of Matthew — which I shall often do, I 
hope — it will be because the Saviour speaks there to my 
soul, and I love to hear his words.” 

“ Upon my word, Hungerford, you will be a parson yet.” 

“ No ; but with all the means which God has placed in 
my hands, I hope to be a minister of the gospel in my own 
way to the poor and needy ones of earth.” 

“ Then you intend to set up as a philanthropist,” laughed 
Dick. 

“ I certainly do not intend to ‘ set up ’ as such ; but you 
have run away from the question. When I marry — if I do 
marry — it shall be as I go into heaven — if I do go there ; 
not by purchase, not by barter, trade, or compromise. If it 
suits me to wed, I shall so do ; if it does not suit me to do 
so, I shall not. I only mean to say that, in a matter so seri- 
ous and solemn, I shall do precisely the same as though my 
uncle had sunk his three millions in the middle of Chesa- 
peake Bay. Is that obstinacy ? ” 

“ I think it is.” 

“ You don’t mean it, Dick.” 

“ I do.” 

Dick bent down in the bottom of the boat, and lighted a 
cigar. It was plain that he had something to say. 

“Would you be bought into matrimony?” demanded 
Eugene, a little excited. 

“ Have a cigar, Hungerford?” 

“ No ; thank ypu.” 

“ I would not be bought into matrimony. That is not the 
question. If your uncle had not left you a single sou, you 
would, in the ordinary course of events, have fallen in love, 
and would have married. Now, because two and a half 
millions depend primarily upon your doing so, you have 
set your teeth against it. I’m ashamed of you. Hunger 
ford.” • 


OFF THE GREAT BELL. 


49 


“If you don’t argue a legal case better than you do a 
matrimonial one, you will never succeed as a lawyer. You 
are all wrong, Dick.” 

“ No, I’m not.” 

“ Yes, you are. I haven’t said I should not marry.” 

“ What you have said amounts about to that.” 

‘*1 have only said that I would not be dragooned into 
marriage.” 

“ But you mean to be obstinate ; you mean to be on the 
off side.” 

“ I do not ; I only mean not to be influenced in the 
slightest degree by this price which has been set upon 
my marriage. Things shall take their natural course.” 

“ Hungerford, if you see a pretty girl, with all wifely 
qualifications, you will think of what you call the ‘ price,’ 
and give her the cold shoulder.” 

“ No ; and I have already seen the one whom you de- 
scribe,” said Eugene, glancing behind him at the wake of 
the boat, because he did not wish to have his looks scru- 
tinized, as he made this important declaration. 

“ Is it possible? ” 

“ It is a fact, told in confidence, of course.” 

“ To be sure ; but I am afraid you will give her the cold 
shoulder.” 

“ No.” 

“ The thought of the ‘ price ’ will make you a slow wooer. 
You will be so fearful of selling yourself, as you call it, that 
you will be distant and reserved, and permit the bird to fly 
away from you in disgust. You will think she is going to 
smile upon you for your money, or you will take so much 
time in satisfying yourself it is not so, that she will grow 
cold towards you. The three millions will be like the turtle 
tliat swallowed its own head.” 

• “ The matter must take its natural course.” 

“ You will not let it take its natural course. You cannot 
help being influenced by the ‘ price.’ Be a little more 

5 


50 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


selfish, and you will be more just to yourself and to the lady. 
By the way, who is she ? ” 

Eugene pointed to the old worn-out farm-house, on The 
Great Bell, and told him all he knew of Mary Kingman, 
which was more than the reader yet knows. 

“ Now, Hungerford, I must do you the justice to say that 
I was wrong in my estimate of your position,” continued 
Dick Birch, when the story was told. “ I think you don’t 
mean to avoid marriage on account of that condition in your 
uncle’s will.” 

“ I do not.” 

“ But I fear that you will be so cramped by it, that the 
fair lady of your castle on the isle may die an old maid for 
all you will do to save her. Mind, I don’t say you will be 
so cramped and influenced; I only say, I fear it — fear it; 
that’s all.” 

“ I hope not.” 

“ There is not a particle of danger that you will do any- 
thing from mercenary motives ; but you must study to avoid 
the other extreme — that of cheating yourself out of a lov- 
ing, beautiful, and accomplished wife, from the very fear of 
taking her at a price. But, Hungerford, you haven’t told 
me what you are going to do with your money, though you 
have hinted that you intend to be a universal philanthropist.” 

“ I distinctly said that I had no intention of ‘ setting up ’ 
as a philanthropist. Your knight errant of philanthropy is 
just as ridiculous to me as the veritable hero of Salamanca. 
There are as many Don Quixotes among the reformers of 
the age, as in any other class.” 

“ Good ! ” 

“ By a most astounding turn of events, I find myself in 
possession of an enormous income. I shall be worth at 
least a million when I am thirty, and possibly three millions.” 

“ Probably,” laughed Dick. 

“Well, probably, then ; but it will only increase my respor. 
sibility. I don’t want to prate about even what I sincerely 


OFF THE GREAT BELL. 


s* 

feel, but, in view of this immense wealth, I regard myse^^ 
as the almoner of God’s bounty. I say this to you in the 
privacy of our friendship, Dick ; I shouldn’t be willing to 
tell it, or to have it told, in town meeting, or even in the 
church. You understand me, Dick.” 

“ I do, my dear fellow ; ” and the idea was so lofty and 
grand, that Dick could not help casting a glance of admira- 
tion at his friend. 

“ It is no affectation for me to say to you that I value this . 
money only for the good it will do to me and to others.” 

“ I know you well enough to believe it, Hungerford.” 

“ But I am not bigoted, Dick. I don’t intend to become 
a professional philanthropist. I am going to be selfish 
enough to look out for myself first. I am going to build as 
fine a house on Pine Hill as a man worth half a million 
ought to live in ; one, say, that will cost twenty-five or thirty 
thousand dollars. Then I shall employ at least a hundred 
men for the next year upon the Pine Hill grounds, which I 
shall transform into a kind of Central Park. This will give 
employment to a small army of mechanics and laborers. 
This is my first scheme of philanthropy.” 

“ It is a very sensible^ne.” 

“ I shall lay out this work, and then, while it s in prog- 
ress, go to Europe for six months or a year.” 

“And leave your affairs to take care of the.mstwes?” 

“ No ; I shall have a business man to act for m«^.” 

“I don’t know where you will find one who could do 
your dreaming for you,” laughed Dick. 

“ I know of only one man who can think and ,eel for me, 
Dick ; and that is yourself.” 

“I!” 

“ There will be a great deal of legal business *o be done, 
and I must have a lawyer. I will give you a s .lary of five 
thousand dollars — more if you say so.” 

“ You are getting personal. There should be nothing 
mercenary between friends. The salary is double what I 
should make at my profession in the city.” 


52 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ But it is only a little more than two and a half per cent 
on the money you will handle.” 

“ I accept the offer, because I think it is only a fair one. 

“ I will give you ten thousand.” 

“ And sell me at your own price ! No, I should not be 
your friend if I took advantage of your liberality.” 

“ I should have said ten in the first place, but I feared you 
would think I intended to patronize you, to make you a crea- 
hKC of my bounty, as the novels say, which would be an 
insult to you. You have a soul, Dick. Now let me talk to 
you as my business man.” 

“ Go on ; I am all ears.” 

The sea was quite rough outside The Great Bell, and for 
the purpose of making the conversation easy and free, Eu- 
gene had put the boat about, and she was now standing, 
close-hauled, up the river ; otherwise Mary and the artist 
would have been seen before. 

“ At the Port and at the Mills there is a population of at 
least four thousand poor people,” continued Eugene. 

“ Now we come to the eleemosynary schemes,” laughed 
Dick. 

“ Don’t mistake me. I seek my oyvn comfort and luxury 
first, for even these help the poor indirectly. I attend to my 
own salvation first ; and have no opinion of those who 
neglect their own souls in running after the souls of others. 
Not a dollar of charity shall be wrung from me. I repeat 
that I shall not go prowling about the country on missions 
of benevolence. Your sickly sentimental philanthropist, 
with long hair parted in the middle, who lives on cold beans 
and warm water, is not my ideal of the man who reforms 
the world and carries blessings to the poor and needy. I 
propose to do something, but I don’t wish to make any noise 
about it. I had about as lief be pointed at a3 a thief as a 
professional philanthropist.” 

“Do you mean clergymen, missionaries, agents of chan- 


OFF THE GREAT BELL. 53 

table associations, who collect money for the poor and the 
wronged ? ” 

By no means — God forbid ! I refer to your bran-bread 
philosophers, who ride hobbies about the country ; men who 
have theories, who believe in fantastic communities, free-love 
brothels, and other abominations ; men who strain at a gnat 
and swallow a camel ; in a word, men who can do nothing 
for the poor and needy until society is reformed — until our 
social and political institutions have been remodelled. Dick, 
I propose to go to work in my own sphere. I am not going 
to upset the world, and throw the machinery of society out 
of gear. Now, to our four thousand poor in Poppleton. 
They are not beggars. Most of them earn enough to live 
on. They work in the factories, go to sea, and job about 
the two villages. A large portion of them are vicious, im- 
moral, and irreligious.” 

“ And you propose to build a church and establish a Sun- 
day school for them.” 

“ I don’t propose anything of the sort,” replied Eugene, 
impatiently. 

The boat had been put about again, and was' now off The 
Little Bell. 

“ What kind of an institution do you propose? ” 

“No institution whatever. These people live in poor, 
mean houses, crowded together like sheep in a pen, sur- 
rounded by filth, and unvisited by the pure air of heaven. 
These causes alone are quite sufficient to make them vicious 
and immoral. I propose to strike at the root of the evil. In 
a word, my first \vork shall be with the homes of the poor. 
I shall quietly purchase one or two of these tumble-down 
old houses, clear them off, and build upon the sites suitable 
dwellings for the poor — such as can be afforded at a cheap 
rent.” 

“ Model houses, you mean.” 

“ I hate even tlie cant of calling them model houses. I 
don’t intend to let them rent free, but to have the occupants 


54 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


independent while they are comfortably lodged. When we 
return to the Port, I will show you where I mean to begin.* 

“ I am all interest, Hungerford, but I see some difficulties. 
For instance, who will collect these rents?” 

“ I should employ a man for that purpose.’* 

These difficulties were discussed at length, till the sail 
boat passed the light on The Great Bell. 

“ Boat ahoy ! ” shouted Mr. Eliot Buckstone. 

“ There’s a craft in distress,” said Dick Birch. “ There’s 
a woman in it.” 

“ I see there is,” replied Eugene, as he put the helm down. 
“ Give the jib-sheet a pull, Dick.” 

The sail boat was now headed towards the disabled craft. 
Eugene tried to make out the person who had appealed to 
him, but he was a stranger. 

“ Young and pretty,” said Dick, as the sail boat rounded 
to alongside the other boat. 

“ It is Miss Kingman ! ” exclaimed Eugene, not a little 
puzzled to account for the circumstances under which she 
happened to be in a boat with a stranger at this distance 
from the shore. 

“Who is Miss Kingman?” 

“ Her father lives in the house on The Great Bell.” 

“ Ah, indeed ! ” 

“Could you oblige me with the use of a pair of oars?” 
asked Mr. Buckstone, holding on to the sailing craft to keep 
the two boats together. 

“ Mary ! ” said Eugene to the lady. “ You are making a 
long voyage for a small boat.” 

“ It was an involuntary one,” she replied, blushing and 
looking troubled when his gaze met her own. “ I was cross- 
ing from the Port to the island, when I lost my oars cver- 
board. I was drifting out to sea, and this kind gentleman 
swam off to my assistance.” 

“ But was unable to render any,” added Mr. Buckstone 
“ Could you spare me a pair of oars, sir ? ” 


OFF THE GREAT BELL. 


55 


■* I can do better than that for you. I will land yc u at the 
Point, or wherever you please. Mary, let me help you on 
board.” 

“ Excuse me, sir, but I would much rather pull ashore,” 
interposed Mr. Buckstone. “ I am wet and rather chilly, 
and I think the exercise would do me good.” 

The marine painter had already imagined how very pleas- 
ant and exhilarating it would be to place the fair girl in the 
stern-sheets of the boat, while he occupied the fore thwart, 
and sit gazing into her sweet face as he leisurely pulled to 
the shore. He was not willing to abandon this delightful 
prospect. 

“ It will be a long, hard pull against wind and tide ; be- 
sides, I have a couple of overcoats on board, which will make 
you quite comfortable.” 

“ I prefer the exercise ; I think it would be better for me, 
if the lady does not object.” 

“ I am afraid my friends on shore will think something 
has happened to me, and I prefer to return as soon as possi- 
ble,” added Mary, as she took Eugene’s hand, and stepped 
into the sail boat. 

“ You shall have the oars with pleasure, sir, if you insist 
upon it,” continued Eugene, as he handed Miss Kingman to 
a seat in the standing-room. 

Mr. Buckstone did not insist any longer. He was evident- 
ly annoyed at the decision of his charmer ; but there was no 
appeal from it, and he went on board of the sail boat. The 
rebellious craft, that would not go without sails or oars, was 
taken in tow, and the little schooner was headed towards the 
Point, for the artist expressed a desire to recover his coat, 
boots, and sketch-book. On the passage the conversation was 
confined to the incidents of the lady’s voyage, and her “ res- 
cue ” b}' the marine painter, who had placed himself in such 
a position that he could see the face of the fair one. 

Dick Birch, who had no idea of what the artist was thinking 
about, amused himself in watching the countenances of 


56 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


Eugene and Mary, to detect, if he could, any silent indication 
of affection on the part of either. He was not rewarded by a 
single sign or token. Eugene was dignified and reserved, 
devoting his whole attention to the sailing of the ooat. If 
Maiy had any thoughts or feelings which concerned the 
helmsman, they were a sealed book to the observer. 

Off the Point, Mr. Buckstone sculled the truant boat 
ashore, and procured his clothing and his sketches. Marj 
had already invited him to go to her father’s house on The 
Great Bell, and dry himself. He was very nearly dry with- 
out the intervention of the good fire she promised him, but 
he accepted the invitation ; and on his return, the boat stood 
up the channel towards the pier at the upper end of the 
island. It was but a short run, and on the way, Mr. Buck- 
stone, now assured that he should not be ruthlessly torn 
from the beautiful girl, made himself wonderfully agreeable. 
He exhibited his sketches, especially commenting on the one 
which included the view of The Great Bell from the Point, 
and fiattered Eugene by promising that his schooner should 
have a place in the painting. The boat landed her party at 
the pier in good order and condition. 

“ Will you go up to the house with us, Mr. Hungerford?” 
said Mary, as she stepped on the pier. 

“ I think not, Mary. I agreed to take my friend down to 
the Ledges.” 

“ I should be happy to have you go,” she added. 

“ I would like to take a stroll on this island, Hungerford,” 
interposed Dick. 

“ Then you will go,” continued Mary, with a look which 
was more eloquent than her words. 

“ Go,” said Dick, in a low tone. 

There was certainly no reason why he should not go, es- 
pecially as his friend desired him to do so ; and to the intense 
disgust of Mr. Eliot Buckstone, he complied. Eugene placed 
himself by the side of Mary as they walked up the hill, and 
the poor artist was obliged to follow with Dick Birch. 


OFF THE GREAT BELL. 


57 


Eugene tried to be tender and gentle, tried to let his actions 
com^ey the first impressions of what was going on in his 
heart ; but in spite of himself, though he was not conscious 
of it, he was rather stiff and reserved. He wished to go 
just far enough to assure Mary that he was tenderly inclined, 
and then, with the slightest encouragement, he would take 
another step ; but he was so fearful of going too far, that he 
altogether failed to produce the least impression. To Dick 
he looked cold and reserved. To Mary he seemed not at 
all like the free and generous boy he had been in the days 
when they glanced at each other across the school-room. 

“We don’t live in a palace,” said Mary, turning round to 
the two strangers behind her, as they approached the dilapi- 
dated mansion of her father. 

There was a blush on her cheek, and her lip quivered as 
she spoke, for there was more to mortify her pride within 
the house than without. 

“ I am fond of old houses. I take an especial delight in 
them. I shall paint this house, with the sea for a back- 
ground,” replied Mr. Buckstone, as he followed Mary into 
the dwelling. 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


S8 


CHAPTER V. 

THE KINGMAN FAMILY, 

RY KINGMAN led the way into the house. As she 
had remarked, it certainly was not a palace. It was 
a very old house, but it would have been a very good one, 
if it had been kept in repair. The party were ushered into 
a large, square room, which in spite of the general dilap- 
idation of the building, was a comfortable apartment. 
The floor was covered with a cheap carpet, and the furni- 
ture looked as though it had been redeemed by patient care 
and labor from the wrecks of better times, though here 
and there it was pieced out by sundry inexpensive articles 
rendered necessary by the progress of the age. 

Whatever the house, and whatever the other occupants 
thereof, Mary Kingman was a lady. She moved with ease 
and grace, she spoke with fluency, and her manners would 
have adorned a Fifth Avenue palace. It was evident that she 
had risen above her social sphere. She was plainly dressed, 
yet there was that in her personal appearance which indi- 
cated a fine taste. 

It was necessary that Mr. Buckstone should be introduced 
to the kitchen, where the great wood fire, employed in get- 
ting dinner, would extract the remaining moisture from his 
garments. An odor of fried fish pervaded the house, which 
the artist declared was exceedingly grateful ; indeed, his 
prejudices, if he had any, against the humble abode and its 
humble suiToundings, seemed to be completely merged in 
his admiration of Mary. If he was a stylish gentleman, as 


THE KINGMAN FAMILY. 


59 


he doubtless claimed to be, he was remarkably condescend- 
ing ; for he made himself quite at home, and did not seem to 
notice the disagreeable things which could not be concealed 
from the eye and the nostrils of the denizen of the city. 

Mary introduced him to her mother, a plain, good- 
natured woman, without any pretensions to polish. She 
was frying the fish over a wood fire in a great, old-fashioned 
fireplace. She gave the artist a homely but hearty welcome, 
•placed h‘m before the fire, and heaped on the wood till the 
ire blazed up like a volcano, and the fish in the pan exhib- 
ited a tendency to leap out of the hot fat in which it was 
immersed. 

“Where is father?” asked Mary, in a low tone. 

“ He hain’t come home yit,” replied Mrs. Kingman, in the 
same low tone. “ Are you go’if to have all these folks to 
dinner? cause, if you be, I must fry some more fish. I hain’t 
got nigh on to enough.” 

“ I don’t know ; i will see.” 

“ I shall evaporate very soon at this rate,” said Mr. Buck- 
stone, who was turning himself round before the fire like a 
piece of meat on the spit. 

“ I hope you are more comfortable, sir,” replied Mary. 
“Will you excuse me for a few moments?” 

“ Certainly,” answered the artist, though he would have 
prefeiTed not to do so, for he realized that the gentlemen in 
the “ best parlor ” were to have the benefit of her society dur- 
ing those few moments. 

As Mary passed along the entry, she saw Mr. Birch 
through the open, front door, on a little eminence before the 
house, apparently enjoying the view of the ocean and the 
surrounding scenery. I have no doubt he was enjoying it, 
for he had a keen relish for the beauties of nature ; but at the 
same time, I cannot help thinking that his presence on the 
knoll at that moment was a piece of strategy — a common- 
place contrivance to enable Eugene to see the lady alone fol 
a brief period. 


6o 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


Mary went into the parlor, where she had left the two gen« 
tlemen. Eugene sat in the rocking-chair, as cool, dignified, 
and self-possessed as though he had not been under the 
same roof with the lady whom he professed to love well 
enough to make her Mrs. Hungerford. A slight flush man- 
tled her cheek as she realized that she was alone with him. 

“ Has your friend so soon tired of our palace on the 
island ? ” said she. 

“ O, no ; I was telling him what a fine view was to be 
obtained from that knoll, and he could not postpone the en- 
joyment of it.” 

“ Of course you will stay to dinner with us, though we 
can give you only fisherman' s fare.” 

“ No, I think not. We have our dinner on board the 
boat, and we shall partake of it on the Ledge. We had no 
intention of trespassing upon your hospitality to that extent. 
As Mr. Birch wished to see the island, I thought we might 
as well walk up while we were at the landing.” 

That was all — was it? He had not walked up to the 
iouse for the sake of being in her presence a few moments 
longer. He did not look at her ; he did not smile like one 
whose heart yearned towards her. There was little, if any, 
of the tenderness in his manner which the impressible artist 
exhibited even after an acquaintance of a few hours. Mary 
was sad at heart, and her smile was a struggle with her dis- 
appointment. 

Yet Eugene did smile upon her ; his heart did yearn to- 
wards her, and gladly would he have told her his thought, 
and revealed to her his soul ; but Dick Birch’s prophecy was 
having a literal fulfilment.. The three millions rested upon 
his heart like an incubus, not closing, but turning aside 
the channels of his affection ; not drying up, but rolling back 
the current of his love. Eugene did try to be tender towards 
hei, but it was an awkward and clumsy effort ; it was a sig- 
nal failure. He judged himself by his intention rather than 
by his acts, and though no sign was given, he fully believed 


THE KINGMAN FAMILY. 


6l 


he had taken his first step. He was waiting now for a token 
of encouragement : of course none could be given. Had he 
boldly looked his love, — had he taken her by the hand, and 
glanced wistfully into her face, — it would have been well 
with him, well with her. He knew not certainly that she 
loved him ; to manifest his own love, decidedly and unmistak- 
ably, would be to tempt her with the three millions. He 
could not buy her with a price ; he could not sell himself 
at a price. 

Mary went out to inform her mother that only Mr. Buck- 
stone would dine with them. Dick Birch still enjoyed the 
view, and she returned to the parlor. 

“Is your friend dry, Mary?” asked Eugene, when she 
came back. 

“ He is not my friend,” she replied, hastening to repudiate 
the implication. “ I never saw him till he came off to the 
boat.” 

“ Still he served you well enough to be your friend.” 

“ I am very grateful to him for his kind intentions, though 
it would have been better for him, and better for me, if he 
had confined his attention to his sketch of The Great Bell.” 

“ He is evidently a man of genius ; and what is more, 
perhaps, to a lady, he is an exceedingly handsome man.” 

“ He is certainly handsome, but that is saying very little 
for him.” 

“ Not many ladies would grant as much.” 

“ We have been friends for a long time, Mr. Hungerford,” 
— she generally called him Eugene, — “and you know me 
well enough to believe what I say.” 

“ I know you set but a small value upon mere beauty ; 
but Mr. Buckstone is more than handsome. He is an arlist ; 
he has an excellent reputation as a marine painter in the 
city.” 

Why did he persist in talking about Mr. Buckstone ? 

“ I suppose you will not remain in Poppleton now, Mr. 
Hungerford,” she continued, boldly changing the topic. 

6 


62 


THE WAY OF THE WORUD. 


“Why should I not?” 

“ All the world knows that you are a inillionnaire now/’ 
she added, with a languid smile, as though that were the 
knell of any hopes she might have cherished. 

^ “ Would that change me ? ” 

“ I think it has changed you,” she answered, with some 
spirit. 

“ In what respect?” 

“You seem more distant and dignified than you useci 
to be.” 

“Do I?” 

“You know we used to be excellent friends when we went 
to school together, and even while you were in college, and 
since your return.” 

“Are we not now?” he asked, with a look more earnest 
than any he had yet bestowed upon her, and beneath which 
a slight flush came to her cheeks. 

“ I don’t think you are so cordial as you used to be.” 

“ I am sure my friendship has suffered no diminution : on 
the contrary, I regard you witli more — more respect than 
ever before.” 

Respect ! what a word to use at such a time and in suck 
a presence ! He meant to say something warmer than this 
when he began, but the ghost of the three millions suddenlv 
obtruded itself between him and her, and he made a botch 
of it. 

“ Without being very sentimental, Mr. Hungerford, I can- 
not help setting a high value on these early friendships.” 

“ So do I ; and, Mary, I am sure we shall always be 
friends^' said he, cheerfully, and even earnestly ; but he 
placed a mysterious emphasis upon the word “friends,” 
which seemed to imply that they could never be anything 
more than friends. 

“It would not be strange, Mr. Hungerford,” — she still 
persisted in calling him so, notwithstanding the example 
he set her in this respect, — “if you should i>rget some 


THE KINGMAN FAMILY 63 

of the friends of your early years, in your altered ciicum 
stances.” 

“ Mary, it would be very strange if I should forget such a 
friend as you have been to me.” 

This was at least progressive. 

“ I could not complain of you if you did. I certainly 
have no claim upon your friendly regard.” 

“ Indeed you have, Mary. I may forget many associates, 
but I shall never cease to remember you as one for whom I 
have always felt a strong esteem.” 

Was that all? Mary felt that it was. Her heart was 
yearning for his love — not for his three millions. What 
she felt now, she had felt before John Hungerford died, when 
Eugene was a humble law student in the office of Squire 
Perkins. These carefully guarded expressions seemed to 
shut the door against her, and to pile up a mountain between 
them. Yet he thought he had said a great deal. He be- 
lieved that she understood him. He was tempted to take 
her hand as they stood by the window looking out at Dick 
Birch on the knoll, and give it a gentle pressure — just 
enough to assure her that he meant all he said ; but this 
tvould be committing himself just a trifle too far; it would 
be offering her a bounty of three millions for her love. He 
must have some slight expression on her part ; he must have 
some assurance that she loved him independently of his 
fortune. 

“ I have no doubt of your present esteem, but the excite* 
ments of your new position will drive many old thoughts 
from your mind,” she continued, perhaps wondering wheth- 
er he had ever thought of her with any more feeling than 
that of cold friendship. 

“ It may ; but, Mary, you will never be driven from my 
thoughts ; that is to say, I shall always think of you as the 
kindest and best of friends.” 

The first clause was too warm, the second too cold ; and 
Eugene began to struggle for the happy medium. 


64 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


‘‘ Mary, I don’t know that any definite expressions of afliec* 
tion ever passed between us,” he continued ; “ still there was 
a certain sympathy of thought and feeling when — when — 
we went to school together, which made us unusually good 
friends. While I was at the head on the boys’ side, you were 
at the head on the girls’ side. All this has gone by ; but 
friendship between boys and girls has a tendency to be a 
progressive sentiment which has ripened or will ripen into 
something” — ^ up came the three millions again — “ will 
ripen into the friendship of the man and the woman.” 

“ I hope so,” replied Mary ; but it was with a sigh which 
she turned away to conceal. 

“ Mary, I am going to Europe in a month or two — as soon 
as I can make my arrangements. As I wander among the 
ruins of Greece and Rome, and sun myself under pure Ital- 
ian sides, about which we used to have somethmg to say at 
school, I shall think of — ” — the three millions ! — ‘‘I shall 
think of — of my friends at home.” 

All of them, of course ! Eugene had a large heart, and 
it could include within its embrace all Poppleton, not except- 
ing the four thousand of the perishing classes, who were to 
be blessed by his bounty. Mary was hardly satisfied with 
the cold, studied, embarrassed termination of Eugene’s rap- 
turous speech. One moment he made her heart glow, and 
the next he chilled it. It is impossible to say what point he 
might have reached, if Mr. Buckstone, now thoroughly dried 
and comfortable, had not entered the room and disturbed the 
unsatisfactory conference. 

Mary could hardly be said to be in love, though the phase 
she had reached is usually interpreted as being in love. She 
was enduring the miseries of that incipient affection from 
which the slightest token of love on the part of Eugene would 
have plunged her into irretrievable depths. That token had 
not been given ; it had been studiously withheld. His words 
were carefully guarded, apparently with the intention of ure- 
venting her from misunderstanding his purpose. He spoke as 
d friend, not as a lover ; he labored to make it plain to her that 


THE KINGMAN FAMILY. 


65 


he was only a friend. He insisted upon friendship ; he had 
half a dozen times elaborately repudiated the very idea of 
love. The spark that was wanting to kindle in the heart 
the flame of genuine affection was not communicated to the 
waiting altar. 

Mary Kingman was not lacking in decision. The little 
curl of her under lip did not speak fldsely of her character. 
Gladly, joyously, triumphantly, as she would have thrown 
herself into the arms of Eugene Hungerford, and permitted 
her heart to grow into and intwine itself upon him, he was 
a mountain of ice to her. She felt that he had closed his 
heart against her. He could be a good and true friend, 
but nothing more. With a desponding spirit she turned 
from him, and the firmness of her character enabled her to 
banish, once and for all, the pleasing illusion from her inind. 
Not all, not many, could have done so ; Mary did, and Mr. 
Eliot Buckstone, with his new-born, but enthusiastic admi- 
ration, became tolerable to her. 

“ I hope I don’t intrude,” said the artist, significantly, as 
he entered the room. 

“ Not in the least, Mr. Buckstone,” replied Eugene, 
lightly, as though the great event of his lifetime had not 
been pending during the interview ; and the very cheerful- 
ness of his tones was full confiiTnation to Mary that no 
thought deeper than friendship had crossed his mind. 
“How do you feel after 3 'Our bath?” 

“ Very nicely, thank you.” 

“Well, Mary, my friend must have exhausted the island 
by this time, and we will continue our voyage,” added 
Eugene, taking his hat, and moving towards the door. 

“ Dinner ’s all ready, Mr. Elungerford,” interposed Mrs. 
Kingmari, coming out of the kitchen on the other side of 
the entry. “ We hain’t got much, but you’re welcome to ’t 
such as ’tis.” 

“ Thank yon, Mrs. Kingman ; 1 think we will not remain 
We engaged to dine on the Ledge.” 

6 ♦ 


66 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


At this moment the door at the rear end of the entry was 
opened, and an elderly man, considerably intoxicated, reeled 
towards the party. It was Captain Kingman, the proprietor 
of the island and of the dilapidated buildings ; and the ruin- 
ous aspect of everything about the place was sufficiently 
explained by his present condition. 

Mary Kingman turned pale and turned red. She looked 
as though she would sink through the floor, and hide the 
shame of being the daughter of a drunkard. She had 
hoped he would not come home while her guests were 
present, and the exposure of the family grief would be 
avoided. 

“ How d’ do, Mis’r Hung’ford,” said Captain Kingman, in 
very loud and bluff tones, as he staggered up to Eugene^ 
and extended his hand. 

“Very well ; how do you do. Captain Kingman?” 

“ Only to’rable ; I git a little touch of rheumatiz novVn 
then ; but I’m to’rable. ’S dinner ready, mother?” 

“ Yes, and waitin.” 

“ Come, Mis’r Hung’ford, set down, and take a bite 
with us.” 

“ I thank you, captain ; I have a friend with me, and we 
intend to dine on the Ledge.” 

“Where’s the man? Tell him ’t come ’n take a bite 
with us.” 

“ You must excuse me. Captain Kingman ; but we shall 
be too late for the tide if we remain any longer.” 

“ See here, Mis’r Hung’ford,” reeling up to Eugene, and 
steadying himself in a position directly before him, “ they 
say you’re rich now. Your uncle’s dead and gone, ’n left 
you all ’s money. But look here, Mis’r Hung’ford; you 
rnus’n’t come down here, put’n on airs. I knew your 
father, Mis’r Hung’ford ; he was a smarter man ’n any of 
's chil’n. Will you take sum’n to drink, Mis’r Hung’ford?” 

“ Nothing at present ; I’m obliged to you. I must go nov/.* 

“ Mr. Hung’ford, you go to .” 


THE KINGMAN FAMILY. 


67 


For some reason or other the inebriated man was deter- 
mined to be angry. Eugene saw what was coming, fof 
Captain Kingman, in his cups, was well known to be a 
quarrelsome man, and he beat a retreat. Dick Birch, who 
had stood like the statue of one of the martyrs on the knoll 
all this time, joined him, and they hastened down to the 
boat, which was soon standing down the river again. 

“Who’s this man?” demanded Captain Kingman, glan- 
cing at Mr. Buckstone. 

“Your most obedient servant,” replied the artist, with 
abundant good nature. “ Captain Kingman, I’m happy to 
make your acquaintance ; ” and he stepped foi*ward, with 
extended hand, which the drunken man grasped, with a 
tipsy grin on his face. “ My name is Eliot Buckstone.” 

“ Mis’r Bucks’on, I’m glad to see you. Won’t you take 
sum-thin ? ” 

“ Thank you ; I don’t care if I do,” replied the polite wooer. 

“You’re the man for me, Mis’r Bucks’on. Won’t you 
take a bite with us ? ” 

“ Thank you ; I had already accepted Mrs. Kingman’s in- 
vitation to dine.” 

“ Well, come ; the dinner ’ll be cold,” suggested the lady 
of the house, nervously. 

At the table Mr. Buckstone was introduced to another 
member of the family — Ross Kingman, the only son of the 
captain. There were four girls, all younger than Mary. 
The inebriate brought out a black bottle from his chamber, 
adjoining the kitchen, and the aitist, though evidently for the 
sole purpose of keeping the peace, partook very sparingly 
with his host. Captain Kingman drank, and the effect of 
this additional dram was soon apparent in his manners. lie 
was belligerent to a degree which made peace almost im- 
possible ; and poor Mary and her mother endured tortures 
too keen for description during die dinner hour. 

“ Mary,” said her father, sharply and sternly, as the family 
rose from the table. 


68 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD, 


She looked at nim, but she made no reply. 

“ Mary, that Hung’ford is a fool,” he continued, spicing 
the remarks, as he did most of his conversation, with many 
oaths. “ He’s a bad man. Don’t you speak to him again. 
Mary, d’ ye hear me ? ” 

“ I hear, sir,” she replied, as she conducted Mr. Buckstone 
to the parlor, hoping to escape her father’s presence. 

The artist had behaved in the most conciliatory manner , 
and by his tact had. several times appeased the anger of the 
inebriate ; but it was plain to him that home to Mary King- 
man was little better than a hell upon earth. He pitied the 
poor girl, and with admiration, love, and pity, his interest 
in her was hourl}" increasing. Captain Kingman followed 
them into the parlor. He was even more stormy and vio- 
lent than at dinner, and Mr. Buckstone, in spite of the peace 
policy he pursued, found it utterly impossible to prevent 
the drunkard from pouring out the vials of his causeless 
wrath upon him. 

“You pop’jays from the city think a sight of your- 
selves,” he added, after he had broken with the artist 
because he declined to drink a second time. “ You 
ain’t no better ’n the law ’lows. You’ve been here long 
’nough.” 

“ I’m going presently. Captain Kingman.” 

“Want you to go now,” roared the inebriate. “And if 
you ain’t gone ’fore I get my bitters, I’ll help you out.” 

He left the room, and Mary wept like an infant. It was 
the artist’s duty to comfort her, and he did so in the most 
tender and respectful manner. While he was thus er gaged, 
a scream from the kitchen startled both of them. It was 
twice repeated, and Mary rushed out of the room, followed 
by Mr. Buckstone. It appeared that Mrs. Kingman, fearful 
of the consequences of further drains upon the bottle while 
there was company in the house, had taken the liquor from 
the chamber and concealed it. She had attempted to do this 
before, and her husband, promptly comprehending tbe trick, 


THE KINGMAN FAMILY. 69 

(x2rw at the poot woman with a ferocity which threatened 
her life. 

Mr. Buckstone promptly interposed, and saved the wife 
from further peril, but only to draw down upon himself the 
vengeance of the demon. He defended himself with skill 
and decision, using no more violence than was necessary to 
save himself from the wrath of his opponent. He was soon 
joined by Ross Kingman, the son ; and the old man, now 
overcome by the liquor and the excitement, was borne to 
his bed. 

Mary was weeping bitterly when the artist joined her ; 
but for years had she suffered as she was suffering now. 
Mr. Buckstone was all sympathy and tenderness. He con- 
soled her, and soothed her mortified pride, by telling her 
that he had witnessed the same scenes in the house of his 
own father, and he knew what it was. She felt his kind- 
ness, and later in the day, when he took her hand, she did 
not resist. She was so wounded by disappointment, so 
broken down by domestic sorrow, that it was sweet to have 
a friend near her in such an hour. 

Twenty years before. Captain Kingman had been what 
was called a ‘‘ smart man,” though even then, he was occa- 
sionally the worse for liquor. The island was his farm, and 
at that time he had been the owner of a good coasting 
schooner, which he sailed himself. But his bad habits 
increased upon him. In coming mto port, after he had 
drank too much, he ran his schooner upon the Ledge, in a 
sharp blow, and she became a total wreck. This event 
opened his eyes, and he was a comparatively steady man 
for several )'ears, and sailed in the employ of other owners. 

Just before the wreck, he had lost his first wife, the 
mother of Mary and Ross, an excellent, well-bred, re- 
fined woman, who sorrowed herself to death as the wife 
of a drunkard. He married another, his present wife, an 
easy, good-natured woman, of no force of character, though 
with a capacit3' for suffering which was now tried to it^ 


70 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


utmost. Captain KingmcUi soon relapsed into even a lower 
depth of vice. No one would trust him now with the com- 
mand of a vessel, for he had lost another schooner when 
there was no excuse for liim. He was poor, for he spent 
what little, money he made in drinlc. Without Ross and 
Mary, the family could not have been kept together. 

Mary had for several years received a salary as a teacher. 
Her position in the High School had been a good one ; but 
several times her father had come to the school in a state 
of beastly intoxication, and abused her shamefully. Her 
sensitive nature could not endure what she was unable to 
prevent, and she had resigned her situation, with the inten- 
tion of obtaining another place, at a distance from homu. 
She was waiting for such a position at the present time. 

Ross Kingman was a good-hearted young man. He 
worked on the farm, at the ship-yards on the other side 
of the river, and occasionally made a fishing or a coasting 
voyage. All he earned was contributed to the support of 
the family. The farm was mortgaged up to its full value ; 
and guilty as his father was, the pride of Ross would not 
permit the family to be broken up, for that would send his 
parents to the almshouse. Mary was his own sister, and to 
her he was wholly devoted. He had often advised her to 
seek a home elsewhere ; but thus far she had assisted in the 
support of the family, and had borne her cross with what 
fortitude she could command. 

Mr. Buckstone heard the substance of this story from the 
lips of Mary herself. In her grief she was glad of a friend. 
She listened to his kind words with gratitude ; and now that 
Eugene Himgerford, as she fully believed, could be no more 
to her, she hardly shrank from the attentions of the artist. 

He went back to his hotel in the evening. He came the 
next day, and the next, and the next, — every day, — till he 
returned to the city. Captain Kingman, sober, remembered 
his interference in the quarrel, and savagely drove him from 
die house ; but Mary met him in other places. 


A STRANGK STORY. 


71 


CHAPTER VI. 

A STRANGE STORY. 

E ugene and his friend dined on the Lf.dge, and dis* 
cussed plans and projects for the future. No doubl 
they enjoyed the dinner, the sea air having given them sharp 
appetites, and the conversation was very interesting, for they 
were in full sympathy with each other. Dick desired to 
know whether his friend had made any progress in his love 
affair, and Eugene, fully believing that he had said enough 
to make an impression upon the mind and heart of Mary, 
assured him that he had taken his first step, and had accom- 
plished all that could be expected in one brief interview. 

They returned to the cottage, and the evening was devoted 
to the contemplated European tour, in which Eugene was to 
be accompanied by his mother and sister. It was arranged 
that the family should depart about the first of September. 
The next day, the young men tried the trout in the brooks, 
and continued for a week to divide their time between the 
sea and the land — riding and walking, fishing, gunning, and 
sailing. Although it was vacation to the law^’er, and the 
hours were given up to amusement, the future, with its stu- 
pendous projects, could not be avoided ; and when the week 
was ended, the details of the enterprise before them had been 
so well elaborated that it only remained to do what had been 
agreed upon. 

During this period of relaxation, Eugene had twice been 
io The Great Bell ; but on both occasions he found Mr. El- 
iot Buckstone there, walking on the beach with Mary. Now, 


72 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


Eugene, without any positive prejudice against the artist, had 
but a very indifferent opinion of him. He did not think Mr. 
Buckstone was a person who could be agreeable to Mary ; 
and so far from being disturbed by the intimacy which had 
grown up between them, he rather pitied the fair girl be- 
cause she was compelled to endure so much of the painter’s 
society. He concluded that the fellow, as he contemptuously 
called him, was taking advantage of the service he had ren- 
dered to Mary, and was making the most of it, while she, 
poor girl, was actually undergoing his persecution rather than 
subject herself to the charge of ingratitude by declining to 
see him. 

This week had been a stormy one in the dilapidated man- 
sion on The Great Bell. Though the artist had kept away 
from the house, he could not conceal himself from the ven- 
geance of Captain Kingman, who was drinking even more 
deeply than usual. He saw that his daughter was meeting 
her new-found friend every day in some part of the island, 
and the wretched girl was consequently subjected to the se- 
verest and most brutal treatment. He had even struck her ; 
and human nature could endure no more. On the day after 
the first visit of Mr. Buckstone at the house, her brother 
Ross had sailed upon a fishing voyage, and she had no one 
to stand between her and the wrath of her drunken father. 

Captain Kingman was so incensed against her, that all his 
thoughts seemed to be centi*ed in wi'eaking his vengeance. 
He was maddened by the demon of the enp, and there was 
no limit to his fury. On the night which completed Dick 
Birch’s week of vacation with his friend, Mary had retired at 
lier usual hour. Her father was not in the house at the time ; 
he was carousing in a low groggery at the Port. It appeared 
that some one, who had seen Mary with the artist on the 
])each that afternoon, informed him of the fact. He was 
heard to swear that he would kill her as soon as he got home ; 
but those present at these drunken orgies regarded the words 
only as. a threat. 


A STRANGE STORY. 


73 


At midnight, Captain Kingman reached his miserable 
home. Whether he intended to execute his threat or not, 
he went up stairs to the chamber of his daughter. The door 
was fastened ; but he broke it open, and seizing the poor girl 
by the hair, he dragged her from the bed, and with hor* 
lid imprecations repeated his threat. Mary was fearfully 
alarmed ; she screamed in mortal terror, and Mrs. Kingman 
came to her assistance. His wife, by drawing the vengeance 
)f the brute upon herself, enabled Mary to escape. He 
pursued her, but in his present condition, it was not difficult 
to ‘^void him. As soon as he had given up the chase, she 
returned to her room, and dressed herself. She suffered ago- 
nies which cannot be described. Her power of endurance 
had reached its utmost limit. 

Kneeling down by her bed, she prayed for strength and 
guidance. There was no friend but God upon whom she 
could throw herself in her sorrow and fear. She could no 
longer remain in the house, for her life was in peril. Her 
father had threatened to kill her in his insane passion. It 
would be tempting him and exposing herself to stay another 
hour ; it would be cruel to both of them. Packing up her 
scanty wardrobe in a bundle, and taking the few valuables 
she possessed, including a small sum of money, she crept 
softly down the stairs. She had decided to leave her wretch- 
ed home, never more to return while her father lived. 

In the entry below she met Mrs. Kingman, who was hard- 
ly less terrified than the daughter. The poor woman was 
suffering almost as much as Mary — not as much, for her 
nature was less gentle and sensitive. Without a word which 
might be overheard by the drunken father, they left the 
house, and walked towards the landing-place. 

“Where are you going to, Mary?” sobbed Mrs. King- 
man, glancing uneasily at the house in the gloom of the 
night. 

• “I hardly know, mother; I cannot spend another night 
in that house.” 


7 


74 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ I don’t blame you, child ; it ain’t in natur to stand sich 
treatment. If it wan’t for the children, I’d go too.” 

“ I wish Ross were at home, mother ; he could tell me 
what to do,” moaned poor Mary, gazing vacantly at the stars, 
which looked so bright and happy, while she was so sad and 
miserable. 

“ I wish he was. I don’t think I can stand it much longer ; 
but the Lord knows, what can I do? ” 

“ I will tell you, mother. You must have him taken care 
of. It is terrible, I know, and I have always struggled 
against the thought.” 

“ What do you mean, Mary?” 

“ You must have him arrested.” 

“ Arrested ! My gracious ! It would be as much as my 
life is worth. I should no more dare to do it than I should 
to cut my head off.” 

“ I’m sorry to leave you, mother ; and I wouldn’t do so, 
if I didn’t think it was best for you as well as for me. He is 
terribly incensed against me.” 

“ I know he is, child. Perhaps he will behave better if 
you go off for a while.” 

“ I hope he will. I am willing to suffer if it will do any 
good ; but my presence here only makes him worse. I must 
go.” 

“ But where are you goin, child ? ” 

‘‘ I don’t know, mother. I suppose I shall find a place.” 

‘ ‘ Can’t you find some place to stop over to the Port ? ” 

“ Perhaps I can.” 

“ Well, God bless you, child. You’ve alius been a good 
gal, and deserve to be well used.” 

Mrs. Kingman, still weeping, returned to the house to pass 
the rest of the night in terror and misery, as she had passed 
many a night before. 

Mary walked to the landing-place, and sat down upon 
a rock by the shore. The present and future were full of 
darkness, mid she knew not whither to turn. She was a 


A STRANGE STORY. 


75 


Lone v/anderer in the desert, and there was no friendly oasis 
to welcome her. By turns she wept and prayed, but there 
seemed to be no healing balm in her tears or her prayers. 
She knew not where to go. She had friends, as the woi Id 
calls them, — many friends, perhaps, — but none to whom she 
t>dt like appealing in her present desperate condition. Her 
pride revolted at the thought of becoming a supplicant be- 
fore those with whom she had walked as an equal, though 
there were hundreds in yonder slumbering villages, who 
would gladly have taken her to their hearts, and poured out 
of their plenty into her lap. There were hundreds who 
would joyfully have given her a home, and protection from 
her wrathful parent, beneath their roofs. Mary was too 
proud to ask favors of this kind. She was capable and 
self-reliant, and loathed the thought of dependence. 

Ti:c gloomy hours wore slowly away, and the daylight 
gleamed in the east. She had determined to take the morn- 
ing train for a large town, a few miles distant from Popple- 
ton, where she hoped to procure a situation as a teacher, 
or at least as an employee in one of the factories. 

As soon as it was light enough, she got into the boat, to 
row across the channel to the village. She intended to 
carry her bundle to the house of a poor woman, whom she 
had served in the past, and having purchased a travelling- 
bag, pack her things in readiness for the journey. She 
could then take the stage, and depart respectably, without 
exciting idle remarks among her acquaintances, if she met 
any of them. Her pride was not conquered even by her 
intense anguish. 

She had not rowed half way across the channel whicb 
divides The Great Bell from the main land, before she heard 
the voice of Mr. Buckstone. He was an early riser during 
his vacation, if at no other time, and had taken a boat for 
his morning exercise. Mary trembled when she recognized 
him. Many times had she thought of him during her lonely 
vigil on tlie snore. He had been a kind and tender friend, 


76 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


arid he knew more of what happened at her father’^ house 
than any other person outside of the family. He had not 
spoken to her so gently and so lovingly without producing 
in her heart an impression — just the impression he intended 
to produce. But, in spite of the interest, and even aftection, 
with which she regarded the artist, she would have preferred 
to leave Poppleton without his knowledge. 

He had spoken of love to her; he had uttered the vows 
and protestations of an enthusiastic admirer. He had plead- 
ed with her, as a lover pleads, for her heart and hand ; but 
she had made him no definite answer. Though she was not 
insensible to his love, though she was even deeply moved by 
his earnest devotion, she did not feel that she yet loved him 
well enough to be his wife. Eugene Hungerford, all hope- 
less and distant as he now was to her, could not be wliolly 
forgotten, though she had ceased to think of him as she had 
thought before he so prudently proclaimed himself to be 
only her “ friend.” 

Mary was in that state of terror, doubt, and agony which 
rendered a near and dear friend almost a necessity to her. 
Her sorrows were too weighty to be borne alone. Under the 
smile of prosperity, with no boding clouds threatening her, 
she might never have favored the suit of Eliot Buckstone. 
As it was, she was disposed to do so ; and now, as she was 
fleeing in grief and misery from the home of her child- 
hood, and from the wrath of him who should have been her 
strongest friend, he stepped into her path. Not thus, borne 
down by the shadow of all earth’s calamities, would she 
have met him ; not here and now would she have listened to 
Ills impassioned eloquence, for her heart was weak with suf- 
fering, her strength was exhausted by the pressure of misery ; 
not thus would she have heard and decided the question upon 
which hung all the issues of the unseen future. She was 
weak in body, but weaker in spirit under the accumulated 
trials and terrors that beset her. 

“You are an early bird, Mary, as well as myself,” said 
Mr. Buckstone, as he threw his skiff alongside her boat. 


A STRANGE STORY. 


77 


She made no reply, for her sorrows choked her utterance. 
Without ceremony, he leaped into the boat, securing the 
skiff astern. 

“Are you going to the Port, Mary?” he asked, as he 
gently took the oars from her grasp, and assisted her to a 
seat farther aft. 

“ Yes.” 

“You are up very early.” 

She could not speak. 

“ What is the matter, Mary? You can tell me, you know, 
for I am familiar with affairs over at the house,” he contin- 
ued. ‘‘ Something has happened, Maiy.” 

His gentleness, his tenderness were more than she could 
jear, and she bent down her head, and wept like a child. 

“ Won’t you tell me what it is, Mary ? ” 

“ I cannot, Mr. Buckstone,” she sobbed. “ Don’t go to 
:he village now. I cannot be seen as I am.” 

He turned the boat’s head towards the Point, and waited 
dll the torrent of her grief had spent itself. 

“ O, Mr. Buckstone ! ” exclaimed she, suddenly raising 
.ler head, and gazing earnestly at him. 

“What has happened, Mary? Won’t you tell me?” 

“ I cannot stay at home any longer. I shall not dare to 
enter my father’s house again.” 

“ I feared it would come to this. Where are you go- 
ing?” 

“ To Newington.” 

“ Have you friends there?” 

“ I shall find friends,” she answered, evasively. 

Then she told him what had occurred during the night ; 
and for an hour, until the sun had risen far above the heav- 
ing waters, they talked of the past and the present. There 
was a future which was still nearer to the thoughts of Eliot 
Buckstone. What he had spoken before, he spoke again. 
Once more he told his story of love, and begged her, in her 
present er.tremity, to give him the legal right to become hei 
7 * 


78 


THE WAY OF TME WORLD. 


friend and protector. Now he spoke to more willing eaia 
than ever before. Without saying that she loved him with 
her wliole heart and soul, she accepted his proffered love ; 
and when she had done so, the great black clouds seemed to 
be rolled back, and she smiled upon him. 

“Mine, mine, forever!” said the rapturous artist, as he 
seated himself by her side in the boat, and passing his arm 
around her waist, he imprinted upon her lips the first kiss. 

“Will you always love me thus?” she replied, feeling 
that, if he did, he would soon become to her more than all 
the world beside, if he was not now . 

“ Always, Mary, always 1 There shall be no change, or 
suspicion of change, in me — never, Mary! I have loved 
you with all my heart from the first moment I saw you. 
When I looked into the boat, still struggling for breath, I 
was almost petrified by the vision of loveliness which greet- 
ed me. Mary, I had seen you thousands of times before.” 

“ Seen me before? ” 

“ In my dreams of paradise ! In my visions of the glori- 
ous and the beautiful of earth ! I have seen you on my can- 
vas ere the pencil had traced a line, and I would have given 
my life for the power to transfer my bright ideal upon its 
waiting surface. But even fairer than the thought is the lov- 
ing, breathing being I press to my heart ; ” and he suited the 
action to the word. 

“ I am afraid this is too poetic to be real,” replied she, he? 
confidence in the man she had accepted not increased by the 
glowing strains in which he spoke. 

“ It is all real. I see you ; I touch you. Mary, you know 
not what I have felt, what I have hoped and feared, how I 
have trembled for myself, since I first saw you. Mary, let 
me live for you. I ask nothing better of this world ; and if 
I have you in the next, I can dream of no purer happi- 
ness.” 

“ But I am a w^anderer and an outcast now,” she said, look- 
ing sad again. 


A STRANGE STORY. 79 

Not a wanderer, and you can never be an outcast from 
my heart, Mary.” 

“ I have no place to lay my head. Let us go to the village 
now. I would have gone without your knowledge, but 
Providence has thrown you into my path. Let us return 
now, Mr. ” 

“ Eliot,” he interposed. 

“ Eliot ! I will go on my way rejoicing now. When I 
reach Newington, I will write to you, and then ” 

“ No, Mary, you shall not go to Newington, or anywhere 
else, without me,” protested Mr. Buckstone, earnestly. “ I 
should be a villain if I permitted you, in our present rela- 
tions, to expose yourself to the perils and privations which 
would surround you in a strange place, where you had none 
to care for you.” 

“But what shall I do? I cannot go home. My father 
would kill me if he knew what has just transpired,” added 
she, as she glanced inquiringly into his face. 

“ Neither go home, nor go to Newington alone,” he con- 
tinued ; and it was evident from his look and his manner, 
that he had a proposition to make, though there was some 
embarrassment about mentioning it. 

“ I must do something.” 

“ Of course you must, Mary.” 

“ What shall I do?” 

“You shall be my wife before the sun goes down to-night, 
Mary ! ” exclaimed he, rapturously. 

She shrank from him, apparently offended, while her 
cheeks were redder than the sun when he rose from his 
watery bed. 

“ Don’t shrink from me, Mary. I meant no harm.” 

It was some time before he could restore her to her former 
self-possession. 

“ Mary, I love you with all my soul. I could die for you 
this moment, even without possessing you for a single instant 


8o 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


You don’t think I would propose anything which I did nol 
believe was best for you ? ” 

“ No, Eliot, I do not.” 

“ If you had even the humblest home, I could wait with' 
out a murmur whole years. But you are alone in the world, 
without a roof to cover you, without a friend to comfort you. 
You are mine ; but what can I do for you? I cannot even 
give you a shelter. I cannot even conduct you to a place of 
Sf fety, without subjecting you to the breath of slander.” 

It was kind of him, harsh and abrupt as the proposition 
had seemed. He meant well, she thought, and she did not 
reproach him when he again brought up the subject. Mr. 
Buckstone argued the question like a lawyer, and in the end 
he overcame all her maidenly scruples. Her situation was 
a desperate one, and if she was to be the wife of this man, 
it might as well be to-day, as a year hence. She consented, 
unwillingly, shrinkingly, almost revoltingly, but she con- 
sented. 

“We shall reach Boston by half past two, and Providence 
by six. I have friends there, and you shall be a bride before 
the sun goes down,” he added, exultingly, pressing her to his 
bosom. “We have no time to spare ; ” and he took up tlu 
oars, and pulled up the river again. 

Landing, he carried her bundle to the hotel. A valise 
was purchased for her use, and she was soon employed in 
packing it with her clothing. Her breakfast was sent to her 
room. A private vehicle was procured, and they hastened 
to the railroad station at Poppieton Mills. But they were 
seen together ; seen to depart together, with the valise and 
other baggage ; seen together at the hotel. If the whole 
truth was not known to the busybodies of Poppieton, it was 
fully surmised. 

And on this morning, as Eliot Buckstone and his intended 
bride were speeding on their way to Providence, Eugene 
and his friend commenced the work which they had planned 
dm ing the week of vacation. All the laborers that could bt 


A STRANGE STORY. 


8l 


procure J at the Port and at tlie Mills were employed upon 
the projected roads through Pine Hill. A practical man 
had been engaged to superintend the operations. 

Eugene was not content with thi^ beginning : he and Dick 
were hastening down to the Port, intent upon purchasing a 
ruined mansion, in which swarmed a dozen Irish families. 
There was no great difficulty in the way, and the estate was 
at once secured. Half of one night during the preceding 
week had been spent in perfecting a plan for the model 
house, and our practical philanthropist was impatient to have 
the building in progress. The parties next went to the 
office of Squire Perkins to have the deeds drawn. 

“ There is a strange story circulating through the plact 
this morning, Mr. Hungerford,” said the squire, after he had 
satisfactorily ridiculed the fancy of his former student for 
purchasing Irish shanties. 

“ There are always strange stories circulating,” replied 
Eugen.,..; mdifferently, for he was too intent upon the business 
before him to be moved by the reports of the village gossips. 

They say that Mr. Buckstone, the artist, left town rather 
suddenly this forenoon,” continued the squire. 

“ Indeed ? Where has he gone ? ” 

“ Nobody knows. They say Captain Kingman’s oldest 
daughter has gone with him.” 

“Mary?” gasped Eugene, starting back with horror. 

“ So they say.” 

“So they say! Who says so?” demanded Eugene, 
fiercely. 

“ Well, perhaps twenty people saw them go. Why, what’s 
the matter, Mr. Hungerford?” 

“ Nothing, nothing,” replied he, struggling to recover his 
self'possession. “ Is that a fact?” 

“ I didn’t see them go ; but that’s what they all say, and 
I suppose there can be no doubt of it.” 

Eugene felt giddy and sick. The story was too terrible 
and revolting for him to believe, and while he struggled with 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


S2 

the tumultLious emotions that rolled up from his heart, he 
refused to credit it. 

“They say this Buckstone isn’t any better than he ought 
to be,” proceeded the matter-of-fact squire, opening the ol 1 
deed by which he was to draw the new one. “ There a as 
a gentleman from New York up here last week who said ne 
was a notorious rascal. I think he said Buckstone ran awa} 
with another man’s wife, and there was ” 

“ My God ! ” groaned Eugene, rushing madly out of tlje 
office, followed by Dick Birch. 

“What’s the matter with him?” demanded the honest 
squire, with no little perturbation, as he jumped out of his 
chair ; and he had not a suspicion that he was rending the 
very soul of Eugene by his words. 

“ He seemed to be struck up all in a heap,” replied the 
late owner of the Milesian hovel. 

“ Bless me ! now I think of it, Hungerford was rather 
fond of that Kingman girl. I’m sorry,” continued the 
squire, rubbing his bald head vigorously. “ She was a nice 
girl, and it’s a pity any harm should come to her ; ” and 
sadly worried by the shock he had given the young man, he 
turned again to the deed. 


POOR MARY. 




CHAPTER VII. 


POOR MARY I 



ON’T be disturbed, Hungerford ; it is r.otli'.ng but an 


idle story,” said Dick Birch, taking the arm of his 
friend as he joined him in the street. 

“ Dick, I shall go mad ! ” exclaimed Eugene ; and a cold 
shudder ran through his frame. 

“ Never mind the story ; it is only gossip.” 

• “ Let us get out of sight, Dick,” continued Eugene, as he 
convulsively clutched the arm of hi's friend, and dragged 
him down the street towards the river. “ I must go down 
to the- island ard learn the truth at once.” 

“ Keep cool, Hungerford.” 

“ How can I keep cool in the face of such a wretched 
rumor?” 

“ This is not like you.” 

“ I shall go mad, Dick ! ” 

“ No, you won’t do anything of the sort. What are you 
going mad for?” said Dick, rather impatiently. 

“ Don’t mock me.” 

“ Then don’t make a fool of yourself. You are attracting 
attention now by your furious pace. Slow down a little, and 
be reasonable.” 

You can’t understand it Dick,” groaned Eugene. 

“ Yes, I can understand it better than ;ou do.” 

Let us get cut of sight.” 

“You won’t make much by getting out of sight, if you 


84 


THE WAY OF THK WORLD. 


insist upon showing yourself off to the people in the streets 
beforehand.” 

Eugene reduced his pace, and labored to be calm ; but it 
was utterly impossible for him to control his emotions. It 
required all of Dick’s strategy to prevent him from expos- 
ing his weakness to the people in the streets. When they 
reached the river, the sail boat seemed to be the only avail- 
able resort, and Eugene threw himself on the cushions in 
the standing-room, the very picture of despair and deso- 
lation. The conduct of Maiy Kingman was as mysterious 
as it was painful. 

Dick hoisted the sails, and took charge of the boat, 
leaving his companion to vent his sorrows by himself. 
The wind was very light, and the boat slowly receded from 
the shore. Eugene did not speak, and his common-sense 
friend watched the sails in silence, deeming it best to let the 
first transports of grief spend themselves. At last the dis- 
appointed lover looked up into the face of Dick, but the 
anguish of his heart was still visible in his countenance. 

“ What shall I do, Dick? ” he asked. 

“ Do nothing,” replied Dick, ratlier sternly. 

“You don’t understand it.” 

“ I do, perfectly. I don’t want to say anything to hurt 
your feelings, Hungerford, but I congratulate you upon this 
thing.” 

“ You are making sport of me.” 

“ On my soul, I am not ! I mean what I say. It is for- 
tunate for you that this thing happened when it did, and as 
it did.” 

“ No, Dick ! ” 

“ I mean so.” 

“ You cannot be so barbarous.” 

“Barbarous? We haven’t got the facts yet, but if this 
girl has run away with a dissolute person, you are a lucky 
fellow to escape from further contact with her.” 

“ You don’t know her, Dick.” 


POOR MARY. 85 

‘ I don’t want to know her if she is what she appears 
to be.” 

“ I will not believe she meditates anything wrong, Dick. 
Mary Kingman was an angel ! ” 

“ All girls are, under certain circumstances.” 

“ No, no, Dick ; you will not understand me.” 

“ Hungerford, I know you feel bad, and I am sorry for 
jOLi ; but I must speak my mind, if I speak at all, whether 
you like it or not. It appears now that the girl has run 
away with a man whose character is not above par.” 

‘‘ Don’t, Dick ! ” 

“ Don’t what? I only state the fact.” 

“ You state it as offensively as possible.” 

“ I state it just as it is. Now, to take the mildest view of 
it : Miss Kingman did not love you, or she would not have 
run away with another man. Is that good logic? ” 

“ I always thought she loved me.” 

“You were mistaken.” 

“ I can’t think I was.” 

“Confound it, Hungerford, what do you mean?” said 
Dick, impatiently. “ Don’t you see the thing has proved 
itself? If you thought chalk v/as cheese, wouldn’t the taste 
convince you? The girl ha^ gone off with another man, 
either to be his wife, or 

“ No, Dick ! ” shouted Eugene, springing to his feet. 
“ Don’t say that, or you will make me your enemy.” 

“ Hungerford, I don’t buy my friends, any more than you 
buy your wife. I deem it my duty, as your friend, to open 
your eyes. I don’t wonder that you feel bad, if you loved 
the girl.” 

“ If I loved her ! ” gasped Eugene. 

“ Well, I had my doubts whether or not you did. I must 
say you were the coolest, most unimpassioned lover I ever 
saw in my life.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” 

8 


86 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ I do. Why, man, you hardly looked at her ! You 
were alone with her for half an hour, the other day, and I’ll 
bet you talked politics with her, or discussed the height of 
the mountains in the moon.” 

“ You are amusing yourself at my expense, Dick.” 

“ I was never more serious in my life, Hungerford. In 
my opinion you have done the very thing I was afraid you 
would do, and warned you not to do.” 

Dick prided himself on being a prophet. 

“ What was that? ” 

“ I was afraid you would permit your fear of buying the 
lady to make you seem cold, indifferent, reserved, and dis- 
tant. When you came out of the house the day we went 
there, I studied her expression very carefully. You had 
been alone with her for half an hour ; I expected to find a 
little glow upon her face, to find some indication of pleas- 
ure in her eye, which would assuredly have been visible, 
if you had given her reason even to suspect that you loved 
her. Hungerford, she looked sad, disappointed, hopeless.” 

“ Do you mean to say that you could tell by her looks 
what her feelings were? ” 

“ No ; but a lady of her age, and of her sensitive nature, 
could not conceal the exultation of her first love, any more 
than she could conceal any other joy that warmed her heart. 
I was looking for such a manifestation. I could not find it. 
On the contrary, she looked sad and depressed.” 

“ Poor girl ! she had enough, as you saw, that day, to make 
her sad and depressed. It was just before her drunken 
rather made his appearance.” 

It was not that. You did not take her by the hand, 
when we left ; you did not smile upon her. Your adieu to 
her was not different from that to her mother. I watched 
her as you walked away. Her eye followed you, and it 
seemed to me I could hear her reason speaking to her 
heart, and saying that you did not love her, and that be^ 


POOR MARY. 


8 ; 

heart must cease to beat for you. I think now that she 
gave /ou up then. Very likely she thought that, as you 
were now a millionnaire^ she had no right to cherish the 
affection she had fostered when you were both poor.” 

“ Perhaps she did,” said Eugene, musing ; “ but I did 
love her, and I intended to assure her that I regarded her 
with deep interest.” 

“ Pray7 what did you say to her?” demanded Dick, 
bluntly. 

Eugene recalled the embarrassment under which he had 
labored on that occasion ; the difficulty he had experienced 
in attempting to say enough without saying too much ; and 
the fear which had haunted him lest he should make her the 
wife of the three millions instead of himself. He had 
firmly resolved not to permit himself to be influenced by 
the contingent fortune, and this resolution had warped his 
judgment over to the opposite extreme. He began to 
realize it now, under the sharp tuition of his common- 
sense friend. 

“ I told her that we should always be friends,” he replied, 
in answer to Dick’s blunt question. 

“ Did you, indeed? ” And something like a sneer accom- 
panied the words. 

“ I meant so.” 

‘‘ It is quite possible you did. Are you sure you didn’t 
tell her you could never be anything more than friends? ” 

“ Of course, I did not. I didn’t mean that.” 

“ Miss Kingman would have been smarter than any lady 
I know of, if she hadn’t believed that was what you meant. 
Did you tell her you were going abroad?” 

“ I did.” 

“ Did you promise to write to her, or ask her to 
write you ? ” 

“ Not in so many words?” 

What did you say about it? 


88 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ Well, I told her — I told her I should think of all my 
friends at home.” 

“Excellent ! ” 

“ Of course I meant her.” 

“ And she, being gifted with the power to read your soul, 
even while you were studiously attempting to hide it from 
her, readily understood that all your friends at home meant 
herself! No, Hungerford, there was no hole in that mill- 
stone. You cheated yourself, which is of no great conse- 
quence ; you cheated her, which, as the result shows, is a 
matter of very great consequence both to you and to her.” 

“ Let us go to the island, and find out the facts,” said 
Eugene, uneasily ; for, as thousands of others have done 
when it was too late, he regretted his excessive distrust, his 
overstrained prudence. 

They went to the island ; they saw Mrs. Kingman : her 
husband was still sleeping off the effects of his midnight 
debauch. She told Eugene that Mary had gone — where she 
knew not. The “ strange story” that was circulating at the 
Port had not yet reached the island. With tearful eyes she 
narrated to him the events which had transpired in the house 
when Capt?,.n Kingman came home in the middle of the 
night; that Mary had been driven from her home by the 
fear of her father’s violence ; that even her life was in peril 
if she remained longer in the house. 

Eugene was filled with anguish by the story of wrong 
and violence ; and it was some time before he could muster 
the courage to repeat to her the rumor which was passing 
through the village. Mrs. Kingman listened patiently to his 
slow and struggling utterance of the truth so terrible to liim. 

“ I shouldn’t wonder, a mite,” said the woman. 

“ Then you think it is true that she has gone off with this 
man?” asked Eugene. 

“ I shouldn’t be the least surprised. Mr. Buckstone was 
down here e’en a’most all tlie time arter that day you were 
all here.” 


POOR MARY. 


89 


“ Was he? ” 

“ That’s what made her father so desp’ate mad with her. 
He found ’em down on the beach two or three times ; and 
arter that it seemed to me the man was possessed with the 
sperit of the evil one, and he pestered the poor gal all 
the time.” 

“ What did you think of Mr. Buckstone yourself?” said 
Eugene, pierced to the soul by every word the woman 
spoke. 

“ Well, he was a perlite body. He always looked like a 
nice sort o’ man to me ; but there’s no tellin what a body is 
by the looks. Cap’n Kingman stuck to’t the man was a 
raskil ; he told me that he had hearn some one said so that 
knew him in New York.” 

“ Poor Mary ! ” sighed Eugene. 

He had already passed from the selfish view of his own 
loss to an unselfish c nsideration of the poor girl’s fate. The 
story was all told. What he had been too blind to see, 
others had known for a week — that Mary had encouraged 
the attentions of the artist. With a heart sadder than he 
had ever known before, he walked down to the boat, where 
his friend had remained while he went up to the house to 
make the inquiries. He repeated to Dick all that he had 
learned. 

“ Poor girl ! I pity her, if the fellow is the villain he is 
represented to me,” said Dick, who, though sometimes sharp 
in his words and quick in his conclusions, had a heart as 
warm and tender as that of a woman. 

Eugene buried his face with his hands, and groaned in 
bitterness of spirit. To his own grief at the loss of her who 
seemed to be more to him now than ever before, was added 
the revolting fact that Mary Kingman had unwittingly thrown 
herself into the arms of a reckless villain. To have known 
that she had become the bride of an honest man, would 
have been tolerable ; to feel that she had thrown herself 
away upon an unprincipled wretch, was insupportable. 


90 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“What shall I do, Dick?” he exclaimed, unable longei 
to conceal the tears that flowed down his haggard face. 

“ You can do nothing but bear it. I pity you. Hunger- 
ford, as I pity her.” 

“ Can’t we follow her, and bring her back?” 

“ She would not come, if what you say be true. She 
loves this Buckstone.” 

“ Can you believe it? ” 

“ We have no right to think she does not. When we saw 
them last on the beach, I could not help thinking that she 
was favorably inclined towards him. He is a splendid look- 
ing fellow. He is an artist, and probably as romantic as a 
knight errant.” 

“ But Mary was not romantic,” protested Eugene. 

“ Perhaps not. Poor girl ! I have ceased to blame her for 
what she has done.” 

“ Wasn’t it wrong for her to go off so suddenly with this 
man ! ” 

“ Undoubtedly he has promised to make her his wife at 
once. Here she was, driven from her home in the dead of 
the night, with the fear of death by the hand of her father 
if she returned ; and, with too much pride to burden her 
friends, whither could she turn ? ” 

“ Where, indeed ! ” groaned the disconsolate lover. 

“ Then this Buckstone, who has been pouring the tale 
of his love into her ears all the time for a week, steps 
into her presence. He knows something about her family 
relations, and she tells him what has happened. What more 
natural than that she should listen to him? What more nat- 
ural than his offer to be her best and truest friend? Doubt- 
less he proposed to make her his wife without delay, and she, 
poor girl, not having a resting-place or a near friend on earth, 
after weakly resisting the appeal for a time, yields the point.” 

“ Will he make her his wife?” whispered Eugene. 

“ Let us hope that he will. They may be man and wife 
before this time.” 


POOR MARY. 


“ But they say he’s a villain.’* 

“ They say so ; but he may be an honest man, after all, 
though I confess that I have my doubts.” 

“ He may deceive her.” 

“ He may.” 

“ Dick, I cannot endure this agony ! ” cried Eugene, 
springing to his feet, as he had often done in his excitement. 
“ I must do something to save her ; at least I must try to 
do something.” 

“Nothing can be done.” 

“ Dick, I feel guilty. If I had spoken what was in my 
heart, this could not have been.” 

“ We don’t know.” 

“ I know ! If I had told her how I loved her ; if I had 
whispered only a tithe of what I felt then, and feel now, 
this could not have been.” 

“ It might.” 

“ No, Dick.” 

“ Don’t distress yourself. You meant right.” 

“ If Mary comes to harm, it will be my fault. If she is 
lost, I have destro3^ed her,” cried Eugene, in his agony. 

“Nothing of the kind, Hungerford.” 

“ If I had told her what I felt, she would not have coun- 
tenanced this Buckstone. When we found them in the boat, 
I saw that his presence was distasteful, if not disagreeable, 
to her. I think she had begun to love me. As you said 
before, Dick, my coldness robbed her of all hope, and she 
has thrown herself away upon this wretch.” 

“ Don’t blame yourself, Hungerford. You did what you 
believed was right.” 

“ I am guilty, Dick ! I must at least try to save her.” 

“ It is too late.” 

“ It is not too late to try ; I must do that. If I can find 
her, I will tell her of my love now.” 

“ After she has been off with this fellow? ” 


92 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


Dick, she is as pure as the angels of heaven. It is hon- 
orable marriage with her, or it is nothing. She may be 
deceived ; this is all I fear. Come with me, Dick. Be my 
friend now, as you have always been.” 

“ Though I thinli it will be a bootless journey, I will go 
with you w^here you will ; or I will follow her without you.” 

“ No ; I will go. If the villain has wronged and deceived 
her, I will tear him in pieces. If I cannot be her husband, 
I will be her avenger, if any wrong has been done to her.” 

They landed. The intention to do something, in some 
measure, satisfied the impetuous nature of Eugene, and he 
was tolerably calm, as they walked up to Squire Perkins’? 
office. The deeds were signed and sealed, and the tenants 
of the Irish house were warned to vacate the premises on 
the next rent day, though with the assurance that better 
apartments at the same price would soon be in readiness for 
them. While Eugene was thus occupied, Dick Birch ob- 
tained, at the hotel where he lodged, all the current informa- 
tion in regard to Mr. Buckstone. As Eugene’s friend was 
obliged to go to Boston on the following day, in order to 
close up his business affairs, he had arranged to go with 
him, and consult an architect in the city in regard to the 
plan for his new residence. They now purposed to take 
the noon train, and there was not much time to spare. 

At the railroad station they learned that Mr. Buckstone 
had taken tickets for Boston, as they had before supposed. 
Our travellers reached that city late in the afternoon. Dick 
immediately procured the services of a skilful detective, 
who promptly traced the fugitives to the Providence depot. 
The hackraan who had driven them there had followed Mr. 
Buckstone into the station-house to carry the baggage, and 
had heard him call for a ticket for Providence. The last 
train for that city had gone ; but Eugene, not to be balked 
or delayed, chartered a special train, and at half past eight 
in the evening they were thundering on their way in quest of 
the runaways. 


POOR MARY. 


93 


The detective went with them, and other assistance was 
obtained when they reached Providence, at ten o’clock ; but 
the hackmen, upon whom they mainly relied for informa- 
tion, were scattered at this hour, though at midnight the 
fact was clearly established that the fugitives had taken the 
steamboat train for Stonington and New York at seven in 
the evening. The lady and gentleman were in Providence 
about an hour ; but whether they were married or not dur- 
ing that time, it was impossible to ascertain that night. 
They had proceeded, on their arrival, to the house of an 
aitist in Westminster Street. Wliether a marriage ceremony 
had been performed there or not, the occupants positively 
refused to say; the parties had gone to New York, and 
must answer for themselves. 

The fugitives could be followed no farther that night, if 
indeed it was necessary to continue the search. The next 
morning Eugene and Dick called at the house of the artist, 
which had been visited by Mr. Buckstone and Mary. Eu- 
gene assured him he came as the friend of the lady, and had 
no desire to injure her ; all he wanted was information of 
the facts. 

‘‘ I haven’t a word to say, sir,” replied the artist. “ Buck- 
stone’s affairs are not mine I don’t know what the effect 
might be of telling you that a marriage has or has not taken 
place in my house ; therefore I shall make no sign.” 

“ If Mr. Buckstone is married, I have nothing to say.” 

“ I don’t know, sir, anything about that. You are a 
stranger to me. How do I know but you mean to attach 
the lady’s property, if she has any, for Buckstone’s debts, if 
they are married ? How do I know but you mean to pre- 
vent the marriage if they are not married? You perceive, 
sir, that I can say nothing at all about the matter.” 

Eugene was suspicious ; so was Dick ; but it was impos- 
sible to induce the obstinate artist to unseal his lips. The 
secret was safe with him. During the day all the clergy- 
men in the city were visited, but none of them had per- 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


formed the ceremony. It might have been done by some 
other authorized person ; but no such individual could be 
discovered who had manied the parties. Some inquiries 
into the character of the artist in Westminster Street were 
not favorable to that gentleman, and it was possible that he 
had been a pai*ty to one of those miserable deceptions by 
which young females have been deluded into the belief tliat 
they were legally married ; but there was no evidence on 
this point, and the pursuers continued on their way to New 
York. 

It was two days before the present abode of Mr. Buck- 
stone could be discovered. At this house it appeared that 
he had taken rooms for himself and wife, 

“ Is she his wife? ” demanded Eugene, imperatively, of the 
landlady. 

“ Bless you ! I suppose she is ! If she isn’t, I don’t want 
them in my house. But they got a telegraph message yes- 
terda}^, and started immediately for Philadelphia. Mr. Buck- 
stone said they should return in a few days.” 

It was useless to pursue the fugitives any farther. It was 
more than probable that the telegraph message had come 
from Providence, and Mr. Buckstone was now fleeing from 
them. Eugene and Dick instituted a thorough inquiry into 
the antecedents and character of Mr. Buckstone. The re- 
sult was not ‘io unfavorable as it might have been, though it 
appeared that the painter had been implicated in a disrepu- 
table affair, affecting the honor of a married lady, as it had 
been reported in Poppleton ; but opinions varied in regard 
to his guilt. Some declared that he was innocent of the 
charge, and was as honorable a man as any in the city, 
while others were entirely satisfied of his guilt in the par- 
ticular case, and did not regard him as even a respectable 
man. 

Mr. Buckstone could not be tried on the accusation, or on 
his general character. Whether he was actually married or 
not, it was impossible to ascertain. Be this as it might, 


POOR MAUy. 


95 


Eugene was confident that Maiy believed she was legally 
the wife of the artist. This was all the result that could be 
reached, and sadly and reluctantly he left the city, to forget, 
if he could, the painful circumstances. Bitterly he re- 
proached himself for concealing his feelings from Mary. 
He felt guilty, even though his motives had been pure and 
lofty. Mary could be no more to him, and he felt that there 
was not another woman in the world who could take her 
place in his affections. 

Dick Birch was a true comforter, a tiiie friend ; but Eu- 
gene's was a sorrow which could not be healed by human 
sympathy — hardly soothed by it. Even the plans for the 
elegant mansion, the work on Pine Hill, and model houses, 
seemed to have lost half their interest. The business in 
Boston was completed, and Eugene returned to Poppleton. 
Dick soon followed him, and they immediately plunged deep 
into the operations which had already been commenced. 


96 


THE WAY Op THE WORLD. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

10 EUROPE AND BACK. 

T he city architect in due time completed his plans for 
the mansion at Pine Hill, and the building was com- 
^menced. The improvements upon the grounds were con- 
tinued with unabated vigor. One model house at the 
Port and two at the Mills were in process of erection. Eu- 
gene Hungerford’s extensive operations kept business good 
in the place ; his entei*prise was appreciated, and he was 
regarded with a respect bordering upon reverence. 

Meanwhile, the preparations for the European tour were 
completed. Mrs. Hungerford had always been a home 
body,” and at her time of life was not much inclined to go 
abroad. She dreaded the ocean voyage, but as Julia desired 
to go, she preferred to join the party. It would be home 
wherever her children were, and as she was still hale and 
healthy, she thought she could enjoy life better with them, 
even at sea, than alone in the cottage at Poppleton. Besides, 
she was greatly troubled by the melancholy which had brood- 
ed over Eugene, since the flight of Mary Ki ragman. It wor- 
ried her to see him, with every worldly prospect so bright, 
become so moody and depressed. She and Julia, as well as 
Dick Birch, did everything that could be done to restore his 
former cheerfulness. 

With these loved ones at home, Eugene talked freely of his 
sorrows ; it was all the solace he had. He could not banish 
from his mind the feeling that he had indirectly been the 
cause of Mary’s misfortune, if, indeed, it was a misfortune, 


TO EUROPE AND BACK. 


97 


which had not yet been demonstrated. Many were the 
tricks and expedients to which his kind and loving frien Js 
resorted to overcome his melancholy. Picnics and par- 
ties, visitings and merrymakings, were liberally encouraged. 
Eugene, to please his mother and sister, attended them all ; 
yet the gloom still hung over him. Independent of his 
princely fortune, he was a favorite with the ladies of Pop- 
f leton. He was a man of noble mien and bearing, and the 
fairest would have been flattered by his attentions. And 
now, the wealthiest man of all the region round, he was not 
only the object of a vast amount of solicitude on the part of 
managing mothers, but the fair ones, who would willingly 
have taken him without a bonus,” fluttered when he smiled, 
and blushed when he glanced at them. In vain they flut- 
tered, and in vain they blushed. Eugene treated them with 
the utmost respect and deference, but his heart was away 
with Mary. 

Even Mrs. Hungerford and Julia, with the kindest inten- 
tions, did not scruple to bring him frequently into the pres- 
ence of ladies whom they deemed worthy of him, with the 
hope that he might be fascinated by some one of them ; but 
it was only to steal him away from the corroding care upon 
which he fed, and win him from the dead thought to which 
he was still hopelessly wedded. He was calm, and even 
cheerful most of the time ; but the worm still kept on gnaw- 
ing. It was hoped by all at home that the tour in Europe 
would produce a salutary effect upon him. 

Just before Eugene’s departure, Ross Kingman returned 
from his Ashing cruise, and a letter for him, which had lain 
in the post office, was opened. Carefully as the lover and his 
friends had striven to conceal his disappointment, the village 
gossips made all the capital they could of it. 'The post- 
master had shown this letter to Eugene, who at once recog- 
nized Mary’s handwriting, and he had impatiently awaited 
the brother’s return, in order to learn what tidings it con- 
tained of the absent one. On the day of his arrival, Eugene 
9 


98 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


went to the island, and had a long interview with Ross, and 
the letter was shown to him. It was written a month after 
her arrival at her new home. She spoke of Lliot Buckstone 
as her husband, and simply assured her brother that she was 
jrleasantly situated ; but Eugene, who was permitted to read 
the letter, saw, or thought he saw, indications that she was 
not happy. She alluded to her husband in the kindest terms, 
but she did not speak of him as one of her gentle, loving 
nature would have spoken, if he had fully realized her hopes 
and expectations. 

The letter did not improve Eugene’s mental condition. He 
could not help feeling that she was disappointed and un- 
happy, and he continued to charge himself with the misfor- 
tunes which had fallen upon her. He frankly told her 
brother his feelings in regard to her. 

“ Well, I always thought, Mr. Hungerford, that she was 
fond of you. She always used to speak of you to me just as 
though it was a settled thing with her, and, up to the time 
you got this money, I supposed you understood each other 
perfectly,” said Ross. 

“ Nothing particular ever passed between us, Ross,” re- 
plied Eugene. 

“ I didn’t suppose there had ; but anybody can see through 
a millstone when there is a hole in it. I hadn’t much 
doubt as to how the thing would turn out. I suppose every- 
body in the place had the same idea.” 

“ I was not aware of it.” 

“ In such matters, other folks sometimes know better whai 
is going to happen than you do yourself.” 

“ I seldom met her.” 

“ That didn’t seem to make much difference. When 
you went to school together, the story was started. But you 
saw her once in a while, and I know she used to be thinking 
of you all the time. Well, she didn’t say so, but I was just 
as well satisfied as though she had told me with her own 


TO EUROPE AND BACK. 99 

mouth that she liked you. I hadn’t any doubts till the money 
came.” 

“ Did you think that would make any difference with 
me?” asked Eugene, anxiously. 

“ Perhaps I didn’t exactly think so, but I was afraid ‘t 
might make some difference with you. I knew Mary liked 
you, and for her sake I couldn’t help wishing things had got 
a little further along. I knew the money wouldn’t break 
anything off with you, but I was afraid it would keep them 
fiom going on. Besides, folks in the village had a good deal 
to say about it.” 

“ What did they say?” 

They didn’t talk of anything but you and your money 
for a week after the news came. I didn’t ask any questions ; 
I generally pay attention to my own business ; but it was 
said, that, according to your uncle’s will, you would have to 
get married right off.” 

‘‘ They did not know me, and they did not understand the 
provision of the will,” added Eugene, petulantly. 

“ They said you wouldn’t marry Mary now ; that you 
would find some lady in the city ! and such things as that. 
I didn’t pay much attention to what they said. Mary did 
not talk about you to me, after that, as much as she used to 
before. As near as I could make it out, she thought the 
money would come between you and her.” 

“ Why should she have thought so?” 

“ It wasn’t very strange, I think. I talked with her the 
day I went away about things in general. I asked her if 
you and she were good friends still ; she said you were, but 
she didn’t think you were quite as cordial — that’s the woi i 
she used — as you were formerly.” 

Eugene stamped his foot impatiently upon the ground. 
The analysis of his conduct which Dick Birch had given 
him had assured him of this fact, and it was now confirmed 
from Mary’s own mouth. He did rot curse himself, for he 
had meant well ; but he severely Earned his own blindness, 


lOO 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


and wondered that he had not been permitted to see what 
had been so plain to others. 

“ I am sorry I did not understand her better.” 

“ I know that Mary was sorry any money had come to 
y )u. I’m sure she liked you for yourself, Mr. Hungerford, 
a id not for what you had.” 

“ Would that I had known it before ! ” 

“ I should think you might have known it. Mary did not 
keep things to herself much.” 

“ I was wrong.” 

“ When I saw that she felt bad, and was disappointed, I 
could not help feeling hard towards you, myself,” added 
Ross. “ Still, as I looked at it more, I concluded that it was 
hardly fair to expect a man with your money would marry a 
poor girl like her, and with things in the family as they have 
been with us.” 

“ That would have made no difference with me.” 

Well, I suppose it is of no use to cry for spilt milk. It’s 
done now, and can’t be helped. I only hope the man she 
has married is the right sort of person, though I didn’t think 
much of him the day I saw him here.” 

Ross, though a quiet and well-behaved young man in the 
main, was belligerent, like his father, upon provocation. Eu- 
gene did not dare to hint even a suspicion that Mary had 
been deceived ; that Mr. Buckstone was capable of deluding 
an innocent maiden with the mockery of a fictitious mar- 
riage ; but he could not banish the idea from his own mind. 
At his instigation, Dick had been engaged for a month past, 
through a legal friend in Providence, in an investigation of 
I he circumstances attending Mr. Buckstone’s visit to that 
city with Mary. It had been ascertained that a marriage, 
real or pretended, had taken place at the house of the artist ; 
but the legal gentleman having the matter in charge had 
been unable to find the person who had performed the cere- 
mony. The artist was reserved and taciturn ; the lawyer 
had coaxed and threatened him without effect. No record 


TO EUROPE AND BACK. 


lOl 


of the marriage had been made, and the obstinacy of the 
artist, who naturally dreaded a criminal prosecution, if any- 
thing was wrong, was a suspicious circumstance. Eugene 
feared the worst. 

“ Ross, what are you going to do this fall and winter?” 
asked Eugene, as they walked down to the. landing-place. 

“ I don’t know yet ; very likely I shall go a fishing once 
more.” 

“ I will give you a thousand dollars a year to work for 
me.” 

A thousand dollars ! ” exclaimed Ross ; for the sum was 
twice as much as he had ever earned before. “ Of course 
I will take it.” 

“ Then the year shall commence to-day.” 

‘‘ What am I to do?” 

“ I am going to build a yacht of a hundred tons. I have 
the model and draughts all made. You shall superintend 
the work, and Mr. Birch will employ you part of the time 
in taking charge of my houses at the Port and at the Mills. 
While I am gone, he will keep you busy.” 

“ Thank you, sir ; I am very much obliged to you.” 

“ When the yacht is done, you will have charge of her.” 

Nothing could have suited Ross better, and he was Eu- 
gene’s friend for life. Dick wanted such a person to assist 
him, and it had been decided, weeks before, that Mary’s 
brother should be employed as soon as he returned. 

“ Ross,” said Eugene, as he stepped into his boat, “ if you 
hear anything from Mary, I want you to write me.” 

“ I will.” 

“ Give your letter to Mr. Birch, and he will forward it to 
me.” 

“ Yes, sir ; I will. I hope she will do well. If her hus- 
band don’t do the right thing by her,” — he paused, and 
looked what he meant, — “ it will be all the worse for him.” 

“ I hope he will be a good husband to her.” 

“ I hope so ; but I wish she hadn’t gone off with him,” 


102 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


added Ross. “ I suppose I may as well go over and see Mr 
Birch, and go to work to-day.” 

“You need not commence till you are ready. You have 
just returned, and you may wish to stay at home a few 
days.” 

“ There is nothing there I care for now,” he replied, sadly. 

“ How is your father now ? ” 

“ About the same ; he don’t improve any. He is very hard 
on Mary, and if she came home, I shouldn’t dare to have her 
go near him.” 

Ross went up to the Port with Eugene, and reported to 
Dick Birch for duty. He was a ship carpenter by trade, and 
worked at the business when there was anything doing at the 
Port ; and his natural tact and ingenuity, as well as the mis- 
cellaneous occupations in which he had been engaged, ren- 
dered him an exceedingly useful person to Eugene’s agent. 
He made the contract with the builders for the yacht, and 
the keel was immediately laid down. 

In the mean time, the eminent trustees in Baltimore con- 
tinued to forward the income of the three millions to Eugene, 
and there was no want of money to carry on the operations 
which had been commenced. A general power of attorney 
was given to Dick by his principal, to transact all business 
in his absence. The agent moved from the cottage to the 
hotel, and the Hungerford family started for Boston to em- 
bark for Europe on the first Wednesday in September. It 
was observed that Dick Birch was a little shaken when he 
took leave of Julia ; that though he kept up a running fire 
of sharp words all the time, he could hardly conceal a dis- 
position to mope and to relapse into moodiness. 

“ Good by, Dick ; do for me as you would do for yourself, 
but remember that only half a million, instead of three mil- 
lions, is to come to me at the end of the seven years,” said 
Eugene. 

“ That matter cannot be decided at present,” replied Dick 
“ You may bring a wife home with you.’* 


TO EUROPE AND BACK. 


103 


“ No!” 

“ Good by, Mr. Birch,” said Julia, taking his hand. 

“ Good by. Miss Hungerford. Don’t forget me while you 
are gone.” 

“ Forget you I ” laughed she. “ Of course I shall not for- 
get you.” 

“ Thank you.” 

“ How strange you are ! ” 

A new phase in Dick’s character seemed now to present 
itself, and she l^lushed slightly in spite of herself. His words 
were strange ; his look was stranger. Perhaps before she 
had gone many miles, the look and the words were more 
intelligible. * 

The train bore the family away from Poppleton, and it 
was nine months before they saw it again. We do not pur- 
pose to follow the party across the ocean, and in their wan- 
derings through Europe. They went the grand rounds, and 
beneath Italy’s sunny skies Eugene did think of all his 
friends at home, and especially of Mary, though not as he 
had intended when his unwitting coldness banished hope 
from her heart. 

Every steamer bore a letter to him from Dick Birch, and 
one which reached him in May, just before he sailed for 
home, enclosed another from Ross Kingman. Eugene, with 
trembling eagerness, tore open the envelope of the latter, for 
he knew to whom it alluded, and he had impatiently longed 
for some intelligence of Mary for months ; not that it could 
give him even a ray of hope, but it might assure him that 
she was happy, and had not come to harm. Ross King- 
man’s letter contained a brief note from Mary to himself, 
with a few lines which he had evidently penned in grea/ 
haste, and under the most intense excitement. 

Mary’s letter, brief as it was, filled Eugene with grief and 
indignation. It gave him a shock more terrible than any he 
had yet received, and only confirmed the fears which had so 
long haunted him. Mary’s note was as follows : — 


04 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


New York, April 20, 1850 

Dear Brother : Three days ago I became a mother , 
but my poor baby died yesterday, and to-day they bore it 
from me. I have not seen my husband for four weeks. I 
fear he has deserted me. He has neglected me for some 
months. I reproached him for it; he was very angry, — he 
had been drinking too much, — and told me that I was not 
his wife. O Ross, I could have borne everything but that ! 
He has left me no money, and the people where I board 
look very coldly upon me. Could you come to me, Ross ? 

Your affectionate sister, 

Mary K. Buckstone. 

Ross Kingman’s letter breathed nothing but vengeance, 
dire and terrible, upon the man who had wronged his sister. 
He was about to take the train for New York. Eugene was 
paralyzed by the intelligence contained in these letters. Poor 
Mary ! How terribly was she suffering for his indecision ! 
He could take no other view, and his anguish was pitiable. 
He gave the letters to his mother, but even she had no power 
to console him. 

Poor Mary 1 The miserable villain had even declared to 
her that she was not his wife. The curse of the cup, from 
which she had escaped when she fled from her home, had 
followed her, and stung her again. She had been a mother, 
but not a wife ! She had been deceived by the wretch ; she 
had not swerved a hair’s breadth from the law of purity and 
innocence in her heart, but her good name was blasted. She 
was cast down and destroyed, with no fault of her own, 
unless her hasty departure with the villain, when all earth 
seemed to conspire against her, was a fault ; her reputation 
was ruined ; the finger of scorn and contempt would point 
at her. It was the way of the world. . 

“ Poor Mary ! ” groaned Eugene, as in the silence of his 
chamber he thought of the hard lot to which she had been 
reduced. It was not enough that she had been wronged and 


TO EUROPE AND BACK. 


105 


deceived, cheated of her honorable name as a wife; tut to 
these were added poverty and neglect. The people in the 
house looked coldly upon her. They regarded her as a 
despised- creature, and repudiated her with scorn and 
loathing. 

“ O God ! that she should come to this ! She whojn I 
;oved with all my soul, whom I would have made my wife,” 
ne moaned, as he paced his chamber. “ God pity her, and 
take her up, when others have cast her off! ” 

Ross Kingman, with the true instincts of a noble brother, 
had hastened to her assistance. He did not despise her ; he 
did not look coldly upon her ; the way of the world was not 
his way. Eugene was comforted by the reflection that she 
had a friend in Ross, but he hoped the passionate young 
man, justly roused to the highest pitch of indignation by his 
sisters wrongs, would not encounter Eliot Buckstone. There 
would be blood shed if he did. 

Long and weary to Eugene Hungerford were the days and 
the hours which intervened between the receipt of the inteb 
ligence and the sailing of the steamer in which he had en- 
gaged passage. Westminster Abbey and Windsor Castle had 
lost their attractions to him ; he was anxious to be where he 
could assure himself that poor Mary was not still suffering. 
Just as the tug-boat was leaving the landing stage in Liver- 
pool, to convey her passengers to the steamer, lying in the 
Mersey, the porter of the Washington Hotel, where he had 
stopped, brought him a package of letters, which had been 
forwarded by his banker from London. Eagerly he tore 
them open, to obtain fresh tidings of her who was now 
always in his thoughts. There was none from Ross King- 
man, but Dick Birch wrote that Mary was still in New 
York ; that her brother was with her, and would remain 
there until she could gain strength to bear the journey to 
Poppleton. “ If I had known what was in that letter of 
Kingman’s, which 1 enclosed for you, I would not have sent 
it.” wrote Dick. “ You must be miserable if you have re- 


ro6 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

received it. Buckstone is a villain, but everything we can 
do for poor Mary shall be done.’* 

Dick wrote page upon page about the new residence at 
Pine Hill, the grounds around it, the model houses in the 
villages, and the receipts from the trustees ; but Eugene read 
tliem without interest. The agent had completed the man- 
sion, furnished it, employed a housekeeper, stocked t)ie con- 
servatory, partially filled up the book shelves in the library ; 
indeed, he had put the place in complete readiness for occu- 
pancy. His description was glowing and eloquent, and 
Eugene would not have believed, a year ago, that he could 
look so coldly upon the realization of his dreams of splendor 
and Comfort. If Mary could have been at his side to enter 
the new house with him, it would have been a fairy palace. 

The steamer sped on her way over the ocean, and safely 
landed her passengers in Boston. Eugene telegraphed his 
arrival to Dick Birch, and took the first train for home. 
When the family reached the station at Poppleton Mills, 
Dick was there. 

“How are you, old fellow?” exclaimed the enthusiastic 
agent, as he seized the hand of Eugene. “ How pale you 
are ! ” 

“ I am very well, Dick. How are you ? ’* 

“Never better. Ah, Miss Hungerford, I welcome you 
home,” he added, grasping the hand of Julia. 

For some reason or other both of them blushed a little. 
Mrs. Hungerford was greeted in her turn, which was after 
Julia. 

“ What’s the news in Poppleton, Dick?” asked Eugene. 

“ Nothing special ; there was a man drowned to-day, off 
Tlje Great Bell.” 

“Who was he?” asked the returned wanderer, fearing 
that this might be the preface to a story informing him that 
some friend had been lost. 

“His name was Goodwin; he was a stranger —came 
down here gunning.” 


TO EUROPE AND BACK. lO^ 

“ What a shock you gave me ! ” added Eugene, greatly 
relieved. 

This way, Hungerford,” continued Dick, leading the 
way to an elegant carriage which stood by the platform, with 
tlie driver holding the open door. 

“ Whose is this, Dick?’* asked Eugene. . 

“ Yours, of course. I purchased it for the use of the 
ludies.” 

Avoiding as much as possible the greetings of friends and 
neighbors, who had heard of his coming, and had collected 
at the station to welcome him, Eugene got into the carriage 
with his mother and sister. 

“ Home,” said Dick to the driver, as he joined the party 
inside. 

Now, Dick, what news is there?” demanded Eugene. 
“ You know what I mean.” 

“ I hoped you would not say anything about that at pres- 
ent, for the news is not pleasant.” 

“ My God ! ” groaned Eugene, 

“ No, no, Hungerford ; it is not as bad as it might be. 
She is not dead.” 

“ That would be good news, — I had almost said. Where 
is she?” 

“ At home.” 

“ At her father’s?” 

“ Yes.” ^ 

‘‘ Have you seen her?” 

“ No ; she is too ill ; but she is improving.” 

“ What does her father say? Is he reconciled? ” 

‘‘ No ; but he can’t help himself ; he has been confined tc 
his bed, for a couple of months, with rheumatism.” 

“ Where is Ross?” 

“ At home. Your yacht lies in the river.” 

“ Never mind the yacht.’’ 

“ I have made Ross stay at home, and attend to the affairs 
of the family.” 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


io6 

“ I am glad you did. What does Mary say ? ” 

“ She suffers severely — not physically, perhaps.” 

“ I see. Do you know anything about Buckstone?” 

“ He is in New York, I suppose. Mary had a letter from 
him the other day : what it was I don’t know.” 

Send for Ross. I must see him to-night.” 

“ Keep cool, Hungerford ; the matter might be worse.” 

“ I don’t think so,” replied Eugene, as he settled back in 
the carriage. 

From the window might be seen the improvements of 
Pine Hill. He did not look at them. The carriage stopped 
in front of his elegant mansion. He hardly glanced at it 
They were nothing to him : Mary was all in all. 


HEALING THE WOUNDS. 


109 


CHAPTER IX. 

HEALING THE WOUNDS. 

‘ T SEE that what I have done does not suit you, Hunger- 

-I- ford,” said Dick Birch, as the party entered the house. 

“ You never made a greater mistake in your life, Dick ; 
I am delighted with it,” replied Eugene. 

“ Upon my word, you look delighted ! ” exclaimed Dick. 
“ You took it all so coolly that I expected to be condemne.l 
for everything.” 

“ I could not have done so well myself, if I had been here, 
Dick. You do me injustice. I entirely approve of all your 
arrangements.” 

Mrs. Hungerford was pleased with the house, and she 
expressed her satisfaction in her own matronly way. Julia 
was in ecstasies ; and as they walked through the various 
apartments, she did not attempt to conceal her enthusiasm. 
Eugene’s thoughts were too busy with the affairs of Mai*}^ 
to permit him to be very deeply interested in the comforts, 
the luxuries, and the splendors of his new home ; but a 
proper regard for the feelings of his friend, who had labored 
so diligently and faithfully in fitting up and furnishing the 
house, induced him to manifest an interest which he hardly 
felt. His taste in books, furniture, flowers, and pictures had 
been carefully regarded, and he was pleased with the devo- 
tion of Dick, if not greatly so with the work itself. 

“ I spent a fortnight in the bookstores of Boston and New 
Vork, and I have put all your favorite authors on the shelves. 
But I have only used up half the space, and you can com- 
ic 


116 


TME WAY OE THE W0EL6. 


plete thu collection yourself,” said Dick, when the ladies liad 
gone to their apartments. 

“ I see you have, Dick, and I am veiy grateful to you. Is 
Maiy able to leave her room ? ” 

“ Yes ; I believe she walks out. What do you think of 
those pictures, Hungerford?” 

“ They are entirely to my taste. You haven’t seen Mary 
you said?” 

No ; she is almost a sti'anger to me, and I could hardly 
thrust myself into her presence under the circumstances.” 

“ Quite right, Dick.” 

“ Do the carpets suit you?” 

“ Entirely ; they are beautiful styles. You said Maiy had 
received a letter from Buckstone?” 

“ Yes ; but I have no idea of its contents. I was in doubt 
whether to have tliose chairs in the drawing-room in plush 
or damask.” 

“You did quite right, Dick. Your taste is unexception- 
able. What does Ross say about Mary ? ” 

“Very little to me. I have left room in the conservatory 
for the ladies to please themselves, you perceive.” 

“You were very thoughtful, Dick, and I am sure they 
will appreciate your kindness as I do. How long has Mary 
been at her father’s, did you say ? ” 

“About two weeks. I have three horses in the stable, 
besides the span for the carriage. Of com*se you can in- 
crease the number, if you wish.” 

“ Three, I think, will be quite sufficient for the present, 
Dick. I hope the family down on The Great Bell don’t 
want for money.” 

“ O, no ! Ross lias drawn all his salary for the year.” 

“ He might have drawn more.” 

“ I offered him all the money he wanted. He has re- 
paired the old house, and made quite a change down there. 
By the way, Hungerford, here is a little business-office ad- 
joining the library, which I haven’t shown you.” 


HEALING THE WOUNDS. 


Ill 


“That shall be for your own use. Do you think Mary 
would see me, Dick ? ” 

“ I don’t know ; but I don’t think it would be advisable 
for you to see her.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ I think it would not improve your present morbid state 
of mind.” 

“ Morbid ? ” 

“ Yes, morbid. You can think of nothing but her. When 
I speak, you answer me with never a word but * Mary.’ I 
have assured myself that everything was done that could be 
done for her comfort. If I haven’t accomplished enough, 
you can do more.” 

“ I am entirely satisfied, Dick.” 

“Then why don’t you let her rest? The mischief has 
been done, and it cannot be helped. Of course she can be 
nothing more to you now.” 

“ No,” replied Eugene, vacantly. 

“ Then why do you keep dwelling upon her? ” 

“ Dick, I feel that I am the cause of all her misfortunes.” 

“ Nonsense ! What a stupid idea that is 1 ” exclaimed 
Dick, impatiently, almost angrily. 

“ Don’t scold at me, Dick ; T am as weak as a child.” 

“ Well, I won’t scold at you ; but did ever mortal enter- 
tain such a ridiculous notion as that you just now expressed ? 
Doubtless there are a dozen girls in the village who have 
been unfortunate. If you had proposed to them they might 
have been saved.” 

“ But I loved Mary.” 

“ That does not alter the case.” 

And she loved me.” 

“ It is all the same.” 

“ Dick, you told me yourself that I had been tardy ; that 
I did not speak when I ought to have spoken.” 

“ Does that make you responsible for her misfortune ? 
You meant right.” 


112 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ I do not accuse myself of any moral wrong in the mat* 
ter ; but if I had been less cautious she might have been 
saved.” 

“ It was your duty to be cautious. With two and a half 
millions of dollars depending upon your marriage, you 
would ha ’e been guilty, if you had not been cautious, Hun- 
gerford. Be a man ; don’t reproach yourself, for you are no 
more responsible for what has happened than I am.” 

“ But it is terrible to think that I might have saved her, 
if I had spoken even a word.” 

“ No, it isn’t terrible. My dear fellow, this is all bosh. 
Dismiss the whole subject from your mind.” 

“ That is not so easily done.” 

“ But you are in duty bound to do it. You are making 
your mother and your sister miserable by your vain repin- 
ings. You have everything to make 3^ou happy, and you 
are resolved to luxuriate in 3’our fancied woes.” 

“ What can I do, Dick? ” 

“ Drive the whole subject out of your mind. She has 
been unfortunate in her husband, if he is her husband ” 

“ My God ! ” groaned Eugene, refusing to be comforted. 

“ Come, Hungerford, you are absurd. Listen to me, and 
I will heal your wounds and hers at the same time.” 

“ You cannot.” 

“ Yes, I can. What under the canopy do you wish to do? 
Do you intend to marry the girl yourself, after what has 
happened ? ” 

Eugene only looked at him, and his expression was so sad 
and painful that Dick abandoned the “ heroic ” method of 
treatment which he had pursued, and became as gentle as 
a woman. 

“ Of course you cannot undo what has been done. Now, 
Hungerford, if you saw Mary happily situated, would that 
satisfy you ? ” 

“ Happily situated ! ” repeated Eugene. “ How can she 


HEALING THE WOUNDS. 


”3 


oe happily situated, after she has been so cruelly mocked 
and deceived ? ” 

“ No matter for that ; if you could see her so situated, 
would you be satisfied?” 

“ I would ; but ” 

“ No buts about it, my dear fellow. Nay, hear me. All 
her misery grows out of the fact that she has not been legal- 
ly married.” 

“ It is horrible to think of,” said Eugene, with a shudder 
“ Such a gentle, sensitive, angelic nature as Mary’s could 
endure everything rather than this.” 

“ Then we will correct it.” 

‘‘ You are treating this as a matter of business, Dick ; 
just as you bargain for my house and my horses.” 

“ No, Hungerford ; I simply apply common sense to the 
case. I have a remedy.” 

“ There is no remedy.” 

“ Yes, there is. You will not hear me.” 

“ Go on,” replied the stricken lover, impatiently and hope- 
lessly. 

“ If Mary is not married, she shall be married. We will 
have the ceremony performed by your own minister. This 
Buckstone shall face the music — nay, Hungerford, don’t 
interrupt me. That will heal the worst wound, and that 
will satisfy her. Now, as you have plenty of money, you 
can insure her against want to the last day of her life. Set- 
tle twenty thousand dollars upon her. Invest it in stocks ; 
make Ross trustee, and let him pay over to her the income. 
Let it go to her children at her decease. This plan ought to 
make you perfectly easy ; at least it ought to atone foi your 
fault, if you are guilty of any.” 

“ O, Dick ! To think of healing her wounds with money ! ” 
said Eugene, reproachfully. 

“ Nothing of the kind ; we heal the wound with marriage, 
which is the only balm for her sorrow.” 

“Will Buckstone marry her?” 

lO* 


£14 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ He will ; he shall have the alternative of marr} ing her, 
or standing a criminal prosecution.” 

“ This is revolting, Dick. A villain to marry her in order 
to avoid a criminal prosecution.” 

“ It will save her good name ; it will make her a v/ife. 
When he has done justice to her, he may go, if he pleases.” 

“And leave her in her misery?” 

“ He will not go, Hungerford. He may be a very good 
fellow yet. Nothing has been proved against him, except 
that he drinks too much.” 

“For shame, Dick! Is it nothing that he tells her she is 
not his wife ? ” 

“ He was tipsy then,” replied Dick, rather tamely, for 
he could not conceal from himself the fact that he was 
arguing the case as a lawyer rather than as a just man. 
“ Very likely the remark he made that she was not his wife 
was only a petulant reply to a sharp question.” 

“ Mary used no sharp words.” 

“But she reproached him for his neglect. As I under- 
stand it, Buckstone is one of those periodical drunkards, 
v/ho have a spree once or twice a year.” 

“ Do you believe that Buckstone married her, Dick, in 
Providence ? ” 

“ To be honest, I do not believe he intended to do so ; 
but the marriage may be legal, if we can prove it. We will 
supply the omission.” 

“Omission!” groaned Eugene. “You speak of it as 
though it were a trifling offence, instead of the most mon- 
strous crime of which a man could be guilty.” 

“ I condemn the crime as strongly as you do. We will 
redeem him and her as far as we can. Now, Buckstone has 
written to her ; this proves that he has not abandoned her. 
Probably he has got over his spree, and desires to have her 
return to him. If so, he shall come to Poppleton, and marry 
her ‘n the church, so as to remove every doubt. Then you 
will put her in the way of receiving an income of twelve 


HEALING THE WOUNDS. 


”5 


hundred a year, and the happy couple may go on their way 
rejoicing.” 

“ He will still be a drunkard ; and he may still abuse am) 
neglect her.” 

But she has the power in her own hands. With the 
twelve hundred a year in her own riglit, she will be indepen- 
Icnt of him. If he leaves her for a month or two, she will 
lOt sutler in his absence.” 

“ What a fate, to be joined to such a man ! ” 

“ That is her misfortune. She chose him, and she must 
abide her choice ; there is no help for that. You cannot 
make a bed of roses for her. She accepted the man, and 
if she does not choose to live with him, she can leave 
him.” 

Eugene walked up and down the library, considering this 
plan. Though, in his estimation, it offered Mary no immu- 
nity from the miseries of her unfortunate union with Buck- 
stone, it would partially mitigate them. He doubted whether 
>hi’ would accept his bounty ; but Dick was certain that he 
covdd manage this part of the business through her brother. 
On the whole, therefore, he was disposed to adopt this as 
the only method by which he could do anything to smooth 
the rough path of the poor girl whom he had so fondly 
loved, whose sweet face and gentle nature still haunted his 
thoughts. 

The more he considered the plan the stronger became his 
approval, though he still regarded it only as a compromise. 
This method of healing the wounds of poor Mary, unsatis- 
factory as it was,, had an immediate effect upon the spirits 
of Eugene. As soon as he had decided to adopt it, he had 
something to think of — something to turn his thoughts away 
from the morbid fancies that beset him. 

“ I like your plan very well, Dick ; but only because it is 
the best that can be done,” said he, seating himself in the 
luxurious arm-chair before his friend. 

“ Hungerford, it is not only the best that can be done, but 


Il6 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

it is very good in itself. It is noble and generous on youi 
part, and Mary ought to be happy.” 

“ She cannot be.” 

“ You prejudge the case. She has no claim upon you, but 
you are treating her like a princess. She will go to New 
York with her husband, and though she will have her trials, 
as all must, she will be better off than half the wives in the 
world. But after all, Hungerford, I propose this method for 
your sake rather than hers. It will heal your wounds, as 
well as hers.” 

“ I’m afraid not.” 

“ You are determined to be obstinate ; to make your moth- 
er and sister unhappy by moping over this thing.” 

“ No, Dick ; for their sake, I will be cheerful and happy, 
if I can.” 

**You can; you are not a weak-minded man; you can 
banish the whole thing from your mind if you will.” 

“ I shall try.” 

“ Then you will succeed. There are other women in the 
world besides Mary — girls as beautiful, as gentle, and as 
loving.” 

“ They are not Mary.” 

“ No ; they are Ellen, and Carrie, and Alice, and Emma. 
A rose by any other name will smell as sweet. You will 
find one who will make you a loving and accomplished 
wife.” 

“ Don’t speak of marriage to me, Dick. I am disgusted,” 
said Eugene, petulantly. 

“Just now you are, my dear fellow; but you will get 
over it, and within the five years now left to accomplish 3’our 
destiny, you will marry, and at the age of thirty the three 
millions will drop into your coffers.” 

“ No, Dick ; though I may possibly marry, I shall not do 
it so as to comply with the conditions of my uncle’s will. I 
have even made up my mind that it would be wrong for m«j 
to do so,” 


HEALING THE WOUNDS. 


11 ^ 


‘‘What do you mean, Hungerford? Are you crazy? Has 
lliis thing turned your head?” demanded Dick, who, how- 
ever, had long ago learned not to be surprised at anything 
his friend should do. 

“ I am sane and reasonable, Dick. Look at it a moment. 
If I comply with the conditions of the will, so far as I can 
do so, and if Providence should bless me with a son, so thal 
the three millions would be legally mine, what would be the 
result? ” 

“ The three millions would be the result, of course,” 
laughed Dick. 

“What else?” 

“ Anything else you please ; it will depend upon how you 
use your money.” 

“ By the conditions of the will, the three millions are to 
be divided into six equal parts, if I have no son. One part 
would be mine, which is all-sufficient for me. I ask for no 
more. I confess, if I was to be left a poor man by it, I 
should not be so likely to entertain my present views.” 

“ But the three millions were intended for you upon cer- 
tain conditions, and you ought to have the money.” 

“ If I have the three millions, I shall cheat my sister out 
of half a million.” 

“By no means : you can give her the half million if you 
choose.” 

For some reason or other Dick seemed to be embarrassed 
when he had said this, as though a selfish consideration was 
intruding itself upon him. 

“ But she is satisfied ; and I hope you will not do it.” 

“ Beyond this, I should deprive the other contingent lega- 
tees of their share.” 

“ Dr. What is his name ? ” 

“ Tom Lynch.” 

“ Dr. Lynch ; pray what possible claim can he have upon 
you, or upon your uncle’s estate? By the way, there are 
some letters from the trustees in the office. I did not deem 


£i8 the way of the world. 

them of importance enough to send to you ; but in one of 
them Mr. Lester says this Dr. Lynch is a miserable repro- 
bate, and has about run tlii'ough the legacy your uncle left 
him.” 

“ That is not my affair. I do not wish to deprive him of 
what my uncle was disposed to give him on a certain condi- 
tion. Then, by the will, a million and a half is to go to 
three great charitable enterprises. If I could rob the indi- 
viduals, I could not take from the poor of Baltimore this 
great boon.” 

“ Your uncle did not leave them a single cent of what you 
mention. It was not his wish that these institutions should 
be founded ; if it had been, he would have left the money 
unconditionally. It was his last and most earnest desire that 
the three millions should be inherited by your son, under the 
name of John Hungerford. This was his meaning ; this 
was his wish, his hope ; and you have no right to set aside 
his intentions. If you take any of his money, 3 ^ou are bound 
by every consideration of respect, affection, and gratitude, 
* to carry out his design, even if you think it absurd to do so. 
What right have you to set yourself up as a judge of 3’our 
uncle’s purposes? The three millions belonged to him, and 
he had the undoubted right to dispose of it as he pleased. 
If you decline to do what he wished you to do, you have no 
moral right to take any of his money.” 

“ Perhaps you are right, Dick.” 

“ I know I am. I am very clear that it is your duty to 
get married, and carry out the intentions of your uncle by 
d )ing so.” 

I certainly shall not marry to obtain the three mi*.- 
lions.” 

“You certainly should not avoid matrimony in order to 
defeat your uncle’s last wishes.” 

“ I will not. Let things take their course just as though 
no three millions were pending.” 

“ If you will only do that, I will be satisfied. Be your- 


HEALING THE WOUNDS. II^ 

self; that is all I ask of you. But tea is ready. Let me 
escort you to the dining-room.” 

"Eugene joined his mother and sister at the table. He was 
more composed and reasonable than when he first entered 
the house ; and he began, in some slight degree, to enjoy the 
comforts and luxuries of his new home. The charge which 
Dick had made against him, of conspiring against the peace 
and happiness of the other members of the family, had pro- 
duced a deep impression upon his mind, and he labored to 
be cheerful. But the plan to mitigate the sorrows of poor 
Mary afforded him some comfort, and his cheerfulness was 
not all a pretence. 

A man had been sent for Ross Kingman, and before tea 
was over, the skipper of the yacht arrived. Dick, after 
charging Eugene not to mention to her brother the scheme 
for healing Mary’s wounds, went out with Mrs. Hungerford 
and Julia to walk in the grounds around the house. He pre- 
ferred to manage this business himself, fearful that Eugene, 
in his excited state of mind, might make some mistake, and 
thus defeat his own kind intentions. 

“ I am glad to see you, Ross,” said Eugene. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Hungerford ; it does me good to see 
your face once more,” replied Ross, grasping the offered 
hand of Eugene. “ The yacht is finished, sir, and if you 
will take my word for it, she is a beauty.” 

“ I have no doubt of it.” 

“ I have been out in her several times. She has made 
twelve knots with the wind free, and nine close hauled. She 
works as handy as a skiff, and behaves like a lady, in a sea.” 

“ I dare say,” added Eugene, rather coldly. 

'‘Mr. Birch attended to fitting up the cabins; and they 
are as handsome as your parlor.” 

“ I have no doubt she is everything I could wish.” 

“ There was one thing you forgot, and that was, a name 

tor her.” 


120 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“We will attend to that at another time. Ross, how is 
Mary?” 

“ Well, she is improving. She walked out to-day, but 
she feels very bad.” 

“ Poor girl ! ” sighed Eugene. 

“ I have cried more within a month than I ever did in the 
same time when I was a baby. You have no idea, Mr. 
Hungerford, how she took on when I first saw her. I was 
afraid she would go crazy.” 

“ Poor Mary ! ” was all Eugene could say. 

“ I brought her home as soon as I could, and I have staid 
with her most of the time since. She is my own sister, you 
know, and she sets a great deal by me, and I do by her. 
She don’t like to have me away from her.” 

“ I will not keep you long, Ross.” 

“ O ! she don’t mind a few hours at a time.” 

“ What does she say about Mr. Buckstone? ” 

“ Nothing ; not a word. Mary is a Christian, if there is 
i/ne in the world, and she won’t even let me abuse him.” 

Ross clinched his fists and grated his teeth. He indulged 
in a few expletives, which seemed to relieve his mind ; but 
it was evident that it would not be safe to let the outraged 
brother see the artist. 

“ Where is Mr. Buckstone, now? ” 

“ I don’t know ; it is lucky for him I do not,” replied 
Ross, fiercely. 

“ Don’t do anything rash, if you should meet him, Ross,” 
continued Eugene, impressed by the savage tones and the 
mischievous looks of the young man. 

“ Mr. Hungerford, it’s no use to talk to me about this mat- 
ter ; if I should see the villain, I would tear him in pieces! 
I would pull out his heart, if I had to be hanged for it the 
next minute ! ” 

“ Don’t you touch him, Ross.” 

“ If I saw him, I couldn’t help it. Why, the scoundrc* 
did not even marry her ! He cheated her ! ” 


HEALING THE WOUNDS. 


I2I 


“ You are not sure of that.” 

“ I am sure of it.” 

“ What is your evidence?” 

“ He told her so himself.” 

“ He was intoxicated and angry then.” 

“ Why did he desert her, just as she was about to become 
a mother? ” 

“ She has had a letter from him since she came to Popple- 
lon, I learn.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ What did he say?” 

“ He pretends to be sorry for what he has done, promises 
never to drink any more, and wants her to return.” 

“Does he say anything about the marriage in the letter?” 

“ Not a word ; but he says he shall come and see her 
soon. He had better not,” added Ross, with compressed 
lips and gleaming eyes. 

“ Don’t harm him, Ross ; perhaps the matter may be 
settled.” 

“ Settled ! ” exclaimed Ross, jumping out of his chair. 
“ He can’t settle this matter, but I can, if I get my hand 
upon him ! ” 

“ If you should assault him, or anything of that kind, you 
might injure your sister more than you injured him.” 

“ I hope he will keep out of my way, Mr. Hungerford ; 
but if I see him, his doom is sealed.” 

“ We are going to do something for Mary, Ross ; we are 
going to restore her good name, at least. Now, you must 
not defeat our intentions by any rashness on your part. 
Keep cool, Ross.” 

“ How can I keep cool, Mr. Hungerford, when my poor 
sister has been ruined by a villain?” 

Ross wept like a child, and Eugene felt that his own grief 
was not to be compared with his. When they parted, he 
counselled him repeatedly not to resort to any violence, if 
Mr. Buckstone should visit The Great Bell, 

II 


122 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


CHAPTER X. 

ROSS KINGMAN. 

R OSvS KINGMAN left Pine Hill at nine o’clock in the 
evening. Since Mary’s return to Poppleton he had 
been almost constantly with her. When he was sent for by 
Eugene Hungerford, she made no objection to his going. 
She sat in her chamber as usual that evening. Though all 
her life since she came to years of discretion had been full 
of cares and trials, though she had endured much of the 
shame and mortification brought upon the family by the con- 
duct of her father, the past, in contrast with the present, 
seemed full of joys and hopes. Only a few brief months 
before, her lot had been happy, compared with her present 
condition. 

She had been deceived, and she felt that henceforth she 
was to be an outcast. Those who had been her friends 
would shun her now. The scorn of the cold world would 
be heaped upon her, whatever the degree of her guilt. 
Those terrible hours of the gloomy night when she had been 
driven from her father’s house came to her mind ; her meet- 
ing with Eliot Buckstone in the morning, when, upon con- 
dition that she should become his wife before the sun went 
down, she had consented to flee with him to find the com- 
forts of a home, if not the joys of a wife. 

Her sun had set. Henceforth she must be content to be 
shunned and despised. Her husband had deserted her, leav- 
ing her not even an honest name before the world. She had 
been indiscreet, but she had not been guilty, and God would 


ROSS KINGMAN. 


123 


forgive her, if muti would not. Then, as many a time before 
since sorrow darkened densely upon her, she would have 
welcomed the angel of death as her best and truest friend. 
The night shadows gathered over the face of nature, while 
she gazed from the window, as they gathered over her trou- 
bled heart. The clock struck nine, but Ross did not return. 
She. wished to see him before she retired, for she was anxious 
to know what Eugene said of her ; whether he condemned 
and scorned her, as she was assured all the rest of the world 
condemned and scorned her. 

It was a very mild and soft night for May on the sea 
shore, and she still sat at her open window. She shrank not 
from the night air, which might be laden with disease and 
death, for life was no longer sweet to her, and she dreaded 
not the grim messenger who must sooner or later summon 
her from the misery to which she seemed to be doomed. 
She heard footsteps in the path which led from the landing- 
place round to the front of the house. She listened and 
looked, believing it was Ross ; but the person, whose form 
she could now indistinctly see in the darkness, did not move 
like her brother. He came beneath her window, and stopped 
there. 

“ Mary.” 

She was startled by the voice. It was not that of Ross, 
but the tones were familiar. 

“ Mary,” repeated the speaker. 

“Who is there?” she asked, quivering with emotion in 
every fibre of her frame. 

“ It is I, Mary. May I see you ? ” 

It was Eliot Buckstone. 

She had many doubts whether to see him or not, but her 
first thought was, that he who had called himself her hus- 
band, who was the father of her dead child, was in mortal 
peril. 

“ Come up stairs,” said she, intent only upon warning him 
from the spot. 


124 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


He entered at the front door, and was familiar enough with 
the house to find his way up stairs. Mary conducted him 
from the entry to her room without speaking a word, thougli 
her heart was almost bursting with agitation. 

“Can you forgive me, Mary?” said he, as he closed the 
door behind him. 

“Can you forgive yourself?” asked she, in tremulous 
tones. 

‘ No, Mary, I cannot ! I have sinned against Heaven and 
you, and I am no more worthy of you,” continued Eliot, 
with apparent or real emotion. 

“ How could you desert me at such a time?” 

“ I did not mean to desert you. I knew not what I did ; 
but how bitterly have I repented ! ” 

“ Have you repented?” 

“ O, Mary ! If you knew what I have suffered ! If you 
could have seen my tears ! If you could have felt the throbs 
of my breaking heart ! ” 

“ You told me I was not your wife, Eliot. That was the 
most cruel of all,” sobbed she. 

“ I was mad, Mary. I had been drinking ; but I have 
sworn never to put the cup to my lips again, and God help 
me, I never will ! ” 

“ Did you mean what you said when you told me I was 
not your wife?” 

“ I did not. Mar}?^, I meant to make you my wife — - God 
knows that I did ! ” 

“Am I not your wife?” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ You do not know ! ” she gasped, for his words sounded 
like an equivocation ; and indeed all his promises and prot- 
estations had been much too violent to seem real to her. 

Now she had discovered that he was a drunkard, she had 
no confidence in him. He had deceived her — he did not 
know whether or not she was his wife ! 

“ I do not know, Mary,” he repeated. 


ROSS KINGMAN. 


125 


“ You are not sincere now, Eliot.” 

“ God knows that I am sincere — that I love you with all 
my soul ! ” 

“Were we married that evening in Providence, Eliot?’ 
she demanded, sternly. 

“ I do not know, Mary. If I intended to deceive you, 1 
would not answer you thus,” replied he, with much meek 
ness in his tones and manner. 

“How dare you tell me you do not know?” continued 
Mary, with energy. 

“ I do not know ; but whether you are or are not my wife, 
Mary, you shall be.” 

“You mock me, Eliot.” 

“ Hear me, Mary, and you shall know the truth, just as it 
is. As God is my judge, I would not deceive you for all 
the world.” 

“You have done it already, if you do not know whether 
we were married or not.” 

“ I intended to make you my wife. When we reached 
Providence, we went to the house of my friend, Mr. Dom- 
ing.” 

“ The artist, you mean? ” 

“ Yes ; I acknowledge that he is not the best man in the 
world.” 

“ Then why did you take me there? ” 

“ Because I had no other friend in Providence.” 

“ If he is a bad man, why is he your friend? ” 

“ We studied art together. I was acquainted with him — 
perhaps he was not my friend, in the truest sense of the 
word. We went to his house, and I told him as much of 
our story as I could relate in five minutes. He laughed ” 

“ Why should he laugh?” demanded Mary, indignantly. 

“ Probably he took a wrong view of the matter, and did 
not suppose I wished to be really married. He was mista- 
ken ; I intended to make you my wife — God knows tliat 1 
did!” 


II 


126 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


Mary wept bitterly. Eliot should have smote the man to 
the earth when he laughed, for the laugh was an insult ; il 
was trifling over the innocence and purity of her he pretend- 
ed to love. She lost hope, as he went on with his story ; 
her worst fears were gradually confirmed. His frequent use 
of the sacred name of God to fortify his statements did not 
inspire her with confidence. To her it was not the simple 
tale of truth. 

“ Go on, Eliot,” said Mary, in despair. 

“ In ten minutes Mr. Doming appeared with the gentle- 
man who married us : whether he was a clergyman or not. 

I do not know to this day.” 

“ He pretended to be one? ” 

“ And he may be, for aught I know.” 

“What reason have you to suppose that he was not a 
clergyman, as he assumed to be? ” 

“ A remark which Doming made to me, as we were leav 
ing his house.” 

“ What was it? ” 

“ It was to the effect that I was married or not, just as I 
chose to regard it. 

“ O, Eliot ! You knew it then, and you did not tell me.” 

“ I did not fully understand the meaning of the remark.” 

“ Why did you not make the marriage legal as soon as we 
reached New York?” 

“ In my heart I meant right, Mary. I intended to see 
Doming, and find out his meaning. If we were not legally 
united, I intended that we should be.” 

“ But you were swift to tell me I was not your wife, when 
you were angry with me.” 

“ I was mad then ; I had drank too much wine.” 

“ I have lost confidence in you, Eliot.” 

“ Do not say that, Mary,” pleaded Buckstone. 

“ Have you seen Doming since? ” 

“ 1 have not. He telegraphed to me, you remember, that 


ROSS KINGMAN. 1 27 

two gentlemen were inquiring into the affair, and we went 
to Philadelphia.” 

“ Why, Eliot? If you meant right, why should you have 
lun away?” 

“ T'o avoid a scene. I supposed then that it was your 
father who had made the inquiries. I thought it best not to 
meet him. You were of the same opinion.” 

“ But it was not my father.” 

“ No ; it was Mr. Hungerford. It was none of his busi- 
ness. Why should he meddle with it? ” 

“ Perhaps he suspected the truth.” 

“ What truth ? ” 

“ That you were deceiving me.” 

“ I was not deceiving you, Mary. If you were deceived, 
so was I.” 

“ Mr. Hungerford was my friend. It seems that he sus- 
pected, w|iat never occurred to me, that I had been cruelly 
duped.” 

“ Mary, you wrong me. I have come here to make you 
my wife, if you are not so already. Your own clergyman 
shall marry us ; and after I have done justice to you, I will 
leave it with you to live with me or not.” 

“ Then you believe I am not your wife?” groaned Mary, 
to whom the fact that she had been a mother without being 
a wife was the sum of all miseries, outweighing all other 
sorrows combined. 

“ To be candid, Mary, I do not believe we were legally 
married.” 

‘‘ Why have you not seen Mr. Doming, and satisfied 
yourself? Is this a matter of so little consequence that you 
can pass it by like a rejected picture? O, Eliot, you have 
leceived me! You have robbed me of myself! Why have 
mu not seen Mr. Doming?” 

“ I was afraid to see him ; I preferred to be in doubt rathei 
han to know that I had done you this great wrong.” 

“ What will bec:)me of me?” sighed she. 


28 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ Lei. US bury the past, dear Mary ; and in the future 1 
will be the fondest and truest of husbands,” pleaded Eliot. 
“ We will be married to-morrow — to-night, if you will.” 

“ I will consult my brother.” 

“ No, Mary ; do not tell him I am here, till we are mar- 
ried.” 

He is my only friend. He will tell me what I should 
do. But, Eliot, he is terribly incensed, and you must not 
meet him. You must go ; it is time for him to return now.” 

“ Where is Ross?” 

“ He has gone over to see Mr. Hungerford, who returned 
from Europe to-day. Go now, Eliot; I will tell you to- 
morrow what I will do.” 

“ Tell me now, Mary. Let my conscience be at rest.” 

“ Go at once ; if Ross should see you, I tremble to think 
what the consequences might be.” 

‘‘ I am not afraid of him.” 

“ But I am afraid. Don’t remain another moment.” 

Go with me, Mary. Let your minister marry us to- 
night.” 

“ No, no, Eliot. You must go now,” she continued, tak- 
ing him by the arm, and leading him to the door. 

“ Good night, Mary,” said he, taking her by the hand. 
“ You will see me to-morrow.” 

“ Do not come here. If Ross should see you ” 

“ I will come when he is away.” 

“ I will meet you on the beach.” 

“ When Ross leaves the island, hang your red shawl out 
this window, and I will go to the beach at once.” 

“ I will. Now go as quick as you can.” 

He left her, and Mary threw herself into a chair, and 
wept till she was startled by the footstep of Ross in the 
entry. When her brother entered the room, with a light in 
his hand, he could not help perceiving by her agitated man- 
ner, and her tear-stained face, that something had occurred 
to disturb the calm In which he had left her a few hours 


ROSS KINGMAN. 


129 


before. lie was her friend and confidant : and after he had 
promised not to be angry, she told him that Eliot Buckstone 
had been there. 

Ross sprang to his feet, and looked like a madman. He 
forgot his promise. He had not expected this, and his na- 
ture was not proof against the shock it gave him. But 
Mary, with her tears and her pleading, calmed him down 
a little, and then he wrung from her a portion of what had 
passed between herself and Buckstone. 

“Are you his wife, Mary? Did he say anything about 
that? ” demanded Ross, struggling to keep down the stormy 
passions that labored in his breast for expression. 

“ I am not his wife, Ross, but ” 

“ Not his wife ! He told you so again ! exclaimed he ; 
and he rushed from the room without waiting to hear any 
more. 

“ Ross ! Ross ! ” she cried, following him. 

But Ross heeded her not. He burst from the house wild 
with rage. She went to the outside door, but he was gone ; 
and overcome by her emotions and her fears, she sank faint- 
ing upon the fioor. She was weak and exhausted, and this 
new demand upon her strength was more than she could 
endure. Mrs. Kingman heard her scream, and heard her 
fall With the assistance of her oldest daughter, Mary was 
borne to her room ; but it was long before she opened her 
eyes and remembered what had transpired, — so long that 
The Great Bell sounded with a note of horror before she 
knew that still she lived. 

Eliot Buckstone left the house. Though he had no strong 
fears of Ross Kingman, he did not care to meet him. He 
walked down the path to the landing-place for a short dis- 
tance, and then turned oft' towards the beach, where he had 
been in the habit of meeting Mary in brighter days. He 
reached the shelving rocks, below which the sandy shore 
extende* i. 


130 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ Well, Buckstone,” said a young man, seated on a rof k 
there, “ Avhat did you make out?” 

On the beach below a boat was hauled partially out of the 
water, and it was evident that the stranger had come ewer 
fiom the main shore with Buckstone, and was waiting his 
leturn from the house. 

“ Everything works well,” replied Buckstone. 

Has Hungerford been here yet?” 

“ No ; of course not. He did not get home till fil e 
o’clock.” 

“ He is fool enough to come even before he went into his 
own house.” 

“ He has not been here.’ 

“ What does she say?” 

“ She will give me an answer to-morrow. I have no 
doubt what her answer will be.” 

“ If she is not a bigger fool than Hungerford, of course 
she will let you marry her.” 

“ She is crazy if she does not.” 

“ Do you really think, Buckstone, that she is not your 
wife ? ” demanded the stranger. 

“ I told her I had my doubts,” laughed the artist, who 
certainly appeared now to have none of the penitential 
thoughts which he had expressed in the presence of poor 
Mary. 

“ You are not talking to her just now.’ 

“Well, then, I am perfectly satisfied that I was not mar- 
ried to her.” 

“ Did you intend to marry her? for your intention makes 
all the difference in the world, ” added the stranger, who 
was evidently acquainted with the law on this subject, if, 
indeed, he was not a lawyer. 

“ I did, and I did not,” replied Buckstone, jocosely. 

“ Not both ? ” 

“Yes, both. I’ll tell you how it was. When I went to 
Dorning’s house, I intended to marry her. I told him what 


ROSS KINGMAN. 


3 


I wanted, and he laughed. That laugh was clear enough 
to me. He understood me to mean that I wished to cheat 
the girl — Doming and I had been together a great deal, 
and understood each other very well. Just then I thought it 
would be foolish and stupid for me to throw myself away 
on one woman. I laughed then. Nothing was said, but 
the affair was just as well arranged as though we had talked 
half a day about it.” 

“ Then you did not intend to marry her when the cere- 
mony took place.” 

“ No ; I did not. I thought it was best not to put my 
head into a trap from which I could not withdraw it, if I 
so desired.” 

“ Who performed the ceremony? ” 

“ I don’t know ; and I have kept out of Dorning’s way 
because I don’t want to know.” 

“ Precisely so ; then you must marry her at once.” 

“For a consideration, I consent,” replied the heartless 
villain. 

“ The consideration shall be forthcoming,” said the 
stranger. 

“ I don’t exactly understand your position,” continued 
Buckstone. 

“ Never mind my position.” 

“ If you prevent Hungerford from marrying Mary, you can- 
not prevent him from marrying some other lady.” 

“ I attend to only one thing at a time.” 

“ I don’t see why you should care whether he marries or 
not.” 

“ It is not for you to know,” replied the stranger, impa- 
tiently. 

“ As you please. When I do anything, I like to know 
something about it. If I don’t understand it, somebody else 
might.” 

“After your confession to me about the marriage, ii 


132 


THE WAY OP THE WORLD. 


would not be prudent fcr you to say much,” added the 
principal, significantly. 

“ Perhaps parties on the other side would be more con- 
fiding.” 

“ Very likely they would. In due time, if you are patient, 
you shall understand the whole matter.” 

“ I prefer to understand it now.” 

“ Very well, I will tell you now, if you insist, though it is 
not best for you to know, at the present stage of the pro- 
ceedings. After the marriage, I intended to tell you the 
whole story. But as : ” 

“ Plark ! ” interposed Buckstone. “ Some one is coming. 
It is that fiery Ross Kingman.” 

“ So much the better. Why not see him now, and tell 
him what you mean to do ? ” whispered the stranger. 

“ He is as savage as an untamed tiger.” 

“You are afraid of him?” 

“ No.” 

“ Then see him ; it would help the matter along.” 

“ He is ugly.” 

“ Never mind, if you are afraid of him.” 

“ I’m not afraid of him. To prove that I am not, I will 
see him,” replied Buckstone, who could not bear the impu- 
tation of cowardice. 

“ Very well ; I will go down upon the beach, for I am 
afraid the boat will float off.” 

Ross Kingman, roused to the highest pitch of excitement 
and anger, was approaching the spot where Buckstone stood. 
There was but one purpose in his mind, and that was ven- 
geance upon the man who had wronged his sister. He knew 
nothing of prudence ; he had no regard for consequences. 

“ Is that you, Ross,” said Buckstone. 

“ Villain ! ” cried the enraged brother, as he rushed for- 
ward upon the artist. 

Buckstone had discretion enough to run away, and he 



What became of the Artist. — Page 133, 






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ROSS KINGMAN. 


retreated before his relentless enemy until he came to a higl 
bluff, beneath which the sea beat against the rocl;s. 

“ Stop a minute, Ross ; I am going to make it all right 
to-morrow,” gasped Buckstone, out of breath with running, 
as he found that his pursuer was rapidly gaining upon him. 

“ I shall make it right to-night,” shouted Ross, as he 
sprang upon the hated enemy. 

“ I am going to marry her to-morrow, Ross,” pleadeil 
Buckstone, as the gripe of the infuriate brother was fas- 
tened upon him. 

Ross had a club in his hand, with which he struck Buck- 
stone a heavy blow on the head. The artist did not speak 
again ; he sank down upon the ground, stunned, if not killed, 
by the blow. Ross, unappeased by what he had done, and 
apparently unmoved by the sight of the prostrate form before 
him, seized the body with both hands, and, dragging it to 
the cliff, hurled it down into the rolling waters beneath. 
There was a heavy splash, and then nothing was heard but 
the monotonous roll of the waves, as they surged against 
the rocks. 

Ross gazed down the steep for a moment, as if to satisfy 
himself that his work was done. He panted like a chafed 
wild beast. He muttered something to himself, and then 
turned from the spot, walking towards the house. If Mary 
was a wife before, she was a widow now. If she was not 
a wife, most terribly had her wrongs been avenged. 

The stranger, when Buckstone left him, pushed off the 
boat, and got into it. Rowing leisurely down the shore, he 
came to the high rocks. His boat struck against something. 
He got up to see what it was. Part of the object rested 
upon a rock, and it was swaying up and down with the 
waves. It was a dead body ! It was the corpse of the man 
who had been drowned that day, for which unavailing search 
had been made. It was a ghastly sight, for there was light 
enough from the stars to enable him to see it. But he did 
12 


‘34 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


not treiiible ; did not flee in terror from the spot. He was 
accustomed to such sights. 

At this moment a heavy splash in the water, a few rods 
from the boat, attracted his attention. He had heard the 
angry v/ords spoken on the clift' above, and he comprehended 
at once that a deed of violence had been done. He was 
startled now, for his companion had been the victim ; the 
bargain he had made with him could not be consummated. 
He pulled towards the spot where the splash had been heard. 
He discovered the inanimate form of Buckstone, and dragged 
it into the boat. He pulled back to the beach, and there 
examined the body. 

“ Dead ! ” exclaimed he, with more of disappointment 
than of horror in his tones. “ He will not marry her now.” 

That was evident enough ; but still the stranger, as if un- 
willing to abandon the hope which had brought him to the 
island, contin led to work over the body. 


r OCTOR LILKS. 


35 


CHAPTER XI. 

DOCTOR BILKS. 

R OSS KINGMAN walked back to the house. Not yet 
did he regret the deed he had done. He felt that he 
had been the minister of God’s justice, as well as of his own 
vengeance. He was calm, now that the excitement of the 
assault was over, and he had no fears of the future. He did 
not tremble as he thought of an arrest, a trial, and a pen- 
alty ; he was ready to meet them. “‘Vengeance is mine; I 
will repay,’ saith the Lord ; ” but this reflection did not occur 
to him. “ Vengeance is mine ; I will repay,” saith the Law ; 
and this reflection did not occur to him. 

He entered the house. Mary was recovering from her 
swoon. When she remembered what had happened before 
she fell upon the floor, she asked for Ross. He went to her. 
She saw that the storm had passed away from her brother’s 
soul ; but she could not see that the lightning of his wrath 
had spent itself upon her betrayer. 

“Where have you been, Ross?” she asked, distrusting 
the stern calmness of his looks. 

“ Down to the shore, Mary.” 

“ Did you see him? ” 

“ I did.” 

“ What passed between you, Ross? ” 

“ Let us not speak of that to-night, Mary. You don’t feel 
very well, and it won’t make you feel any better.” 

“ O, Ross ! What have you done ? ” 

“I will tell you all about it in the morning, Mary,” he 


136 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


replied, evading the answer for her sake rather than his 
own. 

“ Tell me now ! Let me know the worst.** 

“ I was very angry.** 

“Tell me at once, Ross, or I will go down to the beach 
myself.** 

“ Be quiet, Mary. Don*t make yourself sick.** 

“ I know by your looks that you have done something, 
Ross. Don*t speak of me at such a time, but tell me what 
happened.** 

“ I struck him,** replied he, rather doggedly. “ I gave him 
the blow he deserved.** 

“Why did you, Ross?** said she, reproachfully, as she 
rose from the bed. “ You have struck me, as well as him.** 
“ Stnack you, Mary? Don*t you hate the villain ? *’ 

“ I do not hate him, Ross. I could forgive him. Have 
you told me all?** 

He made no reply. 

“ You have struck him down, Ross, and he lies upon the 
beach now. He will die there ! ’* exclaimed she, springing 
from the bed. 

“ Be calm, Mary.** 

“ I will go to him.** 

“ No ; you must not.** 

“ You have struck me harder than you struck him.** 

“ Do not say that, Mary. He is a villain. Think wha*. 
he has done ! He cast you off like an unclean thing ! ** 

“ He lies on the beach, and he will die there,** continued 
she, rising and taking a shawl. “ I must go to him. I must 
undo what you have done, if I can.** 

“ It is too late.** 

“ Ross ! Ross ! ** cried she, in hoiTor and anguish. 

“ I could not help it. It was for your sake I did it.*’ 

“ Where is he now? ** 

“What does it matter to you where he is, Mary? Be 
quiet now.** 


DOCTOR BILKS. 


137 


“ I must go and find him.” 

“ You cannot find him.” 

“ Ross, what have you done with him ? ” 

“I struck him down; and then I heaved his vile carcass 
over the cliff into the river ! Now you know it all. I have 
avenged your wrongs, Mary.” 

The poor girl sank back upon the bed with a groan, and 
her senses left her again. She was too weak and feeble to 
endure the terrible blow. To her other miseries was now 
added the revolting fact that her brother was a murderer. 
Ross called Mrs. Kingman, and together they struggled to 
reclaim the life which seemed to have fled. She opened her 
eyes at last, but by two o’clock in the morning, her condition 
was such, that the watchers by her side were greatly alarmed, 
and Ross started for the Port to procure the physician. 

As he walked rapidly down to the landing, he began to 
fear that he had done wrong ; that his vengeance had fallen 
heavier upon his innocent sister than upon the villain who 
had wronged her. He might have thought of this before he 
struck the fatal blow, but he did not. The reflection im- 
pressed itself more strongly upon his mind till he bitterly 
reproached himself for the crime. 

With vigorous stroke he pulled across the channel, and 
hastened up to the office of the doctor. To his great satis- 
faction he saw a light in the window, and he gave the door 
bell a violent pull. Doctor Bilks came to the door himself. 
Pie was a young man, of twenty-six. During the preceding 
autumn, while Eugene Hungerford was in Europe, he had 
visited the place ostensibly for gunning and fishing pur- 
poses, but the wise ones aftei*wards came to the conclusion 
that it was in search of a good location to build up a practice 
for himself. He hailed from Ohio. 

Dr. Hobhed, the principal physician at the Port, had been 
growing unpopular far several years. Pie was running after 
strange gods, and some believed that he was crazy. He had 
been experimenting for years in connection with a hobby 
12 * 


>38 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


which he called “ The Chemical Theory,” which seemed to 
afford him more satisfaction than the practice of his profes- 
sion, tliough he was regarded as a very skilful physician. 
As no man can serve two masters. Dr. Hobhed’s practice 
began to scatter. People sent to the Mills for the doctor 
there for a time ; but now two or three young practitioners 
had set up at the Port, and the old doctor was permitted to 
pursue his studies without much interruption. 

Dr. Bilks was a free and easy man. He had an abun- 
dance of tact — more tact than professional knowledge. He 
knew human nature better than pathology and therapeutics ; 
consequently he was more successful in obtaining patients 
tlian in healing them, though his knowledge and skill were 
fully up to the average standard. He was a popular man in 
the Port. He knew how to make acquaintances. If there 
was anything going on in the place, he was always present 
in the heat of the excitement. He had a fast horse at- 
tached to a new sulky, and every forenoon he was seen driv- 
ing at a furious pace through the principal streets, as though 
the life of a patient depended wholly upon the speed of his 
horse. He commenced this strategy before he had been three 
days in the place, and had kept it up ever since. It looked 
like business. 

When Dr. Bilks went into company, he talked a great 
deal about his profession. He was inclined to gape, even in 
the very teeth of decency and good manners ; but this gape 
was always the prelude to a narrative of the hardships and 
privations of the physician’s life. He had been up all night, 
attending to a desperate case, miles away, where the people 
were not known. Dr. Bilks was an ill-used man in his own 
estimation, and patients seemed to break their legs and arms, 
derange their stomachs, and disorder their livers, solely to 
punish him. But the new doctor was a growing man. 

Dr. Bilks had been seven months at the Port, and had 
made the acquaintance of every man of consequence in the 
town. Dick Birch and the smart physician were on the 


DOCTOR BILKS; 


m 

most ii\timate terms. The doctor was no quack or charla- 
tan ; he was a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, 
regularly matriculated, and regularly graduated at the Jeffer- 
son Medical College in the city of Philadelphia. There 
were so few persons of liberal culture in the place, that Dick 
was glad to know him, and afforded all needful encourage- 
ment to the acquaintance. Dr. Bilks had been a frequent 
visitor at Pine Hill before the return of its owner, and, of 
course, Eugene did not suffer at all in the descriptions which 
Dick gave of him. That the lord of Pine Hill, on his return, 
should be a fast friend of the smart doctor, was already a 
settled fact. 

When Mary was brought home by her brother, sick and 
suffering, Dick had advised Ross to call in Dr. Bilks, and he 
was attending her professionally at the time of Eugene’s 
return, though his visits were now made only two or three 
times a week. It was quite proper that Mary’s physician 
should know all her story, and Dick had unreservedly con- 
fided in him, though the narrative included the relations of 
Eugene, as well as those of Eliot Buckstone. It is more 
than probable that the anxious friend depended much upon 
the doctor for assistance in healing Hungerford’s wounds, as 
well as Mary’s. 

“Ah, Ross, is that you?” said the doctor, familiarly, as 
he recognized the caller. 

“Yes, sir ; I want you to go over to the island with me 
right off. Mary is very bad,” replied Ross, hurriedly. 

“What’s the matter with her?” 

“ She’s nervous ; she got frightened. Be as quick as you 
can, if you please, doctor.” 

“ Well, this is rather hard on me. I have just come in from 
a bad case over beyond the Point. I’ve hardly slept a wink 
for three nights. But of course I will go, Ross.” 

“ That’s right ; but be as quick as you can.” 

Dr Bilks put on his overcoat, and took the small trunk 
In which he carried his medicines and instruments. Lock- 


140 


THE WAY OF THE WoELt). 


ing the door of the office, he joined Ross, who had already 
gone into the street. 

“ ril carry your trunk, doctor.” 

“ Thank you, Ross. You said your sister was frightened 
— had a shock,” said Dr. Bilks, as he drew on his gloves. 
“What frightened her?” 

“ I may as well tell you all about it, doctor,” replied Ross, 
quickening his pace. “ You will find it out to-morrow.” 

“ Has anything happened on the island?” 

“ Yes, sir ; something has happened there ; and I suppose 
no one knows any more about it than I do. That Buckstone 
has been down there.’ 

“ Indeed?” 

“Yes, sir; you know whom I mean — the man who pre- 
tended to be Mary’s husband ; who wronged and deceived 
her.” 

“ Yes. I understand. I have heard the whole story. 
You say he has been down there.” 

“ He has ; but he never will go away from there ! ” 

“What do you mean, Ross?” demanded Dr. Bilks, stop- 
ping short in the street. 

“ Don’t you understand me? But come along. We must 
be in a hurry.” 

“ You don’t mean to say you have — you have put him out 
of the way?” 

“ That is just what I mean to say.” 

“ Killed him? ” gasped the doctor. 

“ I struck him on the head with a club, and then threw 
him overboard,” answered Ross, in excited tones. “ I gave 
the villain what he deserved.” 

They walked along in silence for a moment, for the doctor 
seemed to be paralyzed by the murderer’s confession. And 
yet there was something so commonplace and formal in his 
expressions of horror and regret, that even Ross was sur- 
prised at the coolness with which he received the intelli- 
gence. 


DOCTOR BILKS. I^I 

“ This is bad business, Ross,” continued the doctor. “ Why 
did you tell me of it? I am your friend, and I would not 
injure you for all the world.” 

“ I did what was right.” 

“ Do you think it is right to kill a man.” 

“ I tliink it was right to kill him.” 

“ But you have made a world of trouble for your friends.” 

“ I can’t help it., I don’t care what any one thinks but 
Mary. She feels bad about it. I wouldn’t have done it if 
I had thought it would make her feel so.” 

But you will be arrested, Ross.” 

“ I can’t help it,” added Ross, doggedly. “ If any jury 
will hang me for that, I am willing to be hanged.” 

“ You will hang yourself! Why did you tell me?” 

“ I thought you had better know what ailed Mary.” 

“ You musn’t speak of it again. Who knows it now?” 

“ Only you and Mary.” 

“ Don’t speak of it to any one else,” said Dr. Bilks, 
earnestly, as they stepped into the boat. 

“ I shall not be likely to talk much about it.” 

“ Perhaps the body will not be found. If it is not, you 
may never be suspected.” 

‘‘ I don’t care much what becomes of me.” 

“ For Mary’s sake you must keep still. I am afraid you 
have wronged her, more than any one else, Ross.” 

“ How can that be?” 

“ I have no doubt that Buckstone was really her husband.’* 

“ He told her he was not ; and those words sealed his 
doom. When she told me that, I didn’t wait to hear any 
more. I was so mad, I could not keep still.” 

“ There is some mistake, Ross.” 

“ No ; there isn’t.” 

“ If either Buckstone or Mary intended to be married, 
even if the man who performed the ceremony was neither 
a clergyman nor a justice of the peace, the marriage is 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


J42 

legal. That is the law of the state/’ replied Dr. Bilks, who 
had evidently been reading the law books on this subject. 

“ He didn’t intend to marry her,” replied Ross, with an 
oath. 

“ Perhaps it may be proved that he did ; if so, the mar- 
riage was legal.” 

The boat had now reached the landing, and Ross and the 
doctor walked up to the house. Mary was a little better ; 
but Dr. Bilks prescribed for her. Nothing was said about 
the murder, for the poor girl was trying to forget her own 
woe in seeking the safety of her brother. The doctor was 
equally prudent, and did not betray his knowledge of the 
terrible affair. He remained an hour, and then Ross re- 
turned to the Port with him. 

“You must be very cautious, Ross,” said Dr. Bilks, as 
they entered the boat. “ It might go hard with you, if this 
thing is found out.” 

“ It will be found out ; it will be all over town by to-mor- 
row morning,” replied the murderer, indifferently. 

“ Not unless you tell of it. I will keep still, and I am 
sure Mary will. She did not speak to me about it.” 

“ It cannot be covered up ; I don’t care whether it is or 
not. If I have done wrong, I am willing to suffer for it/* 

“ But think of Mary.” 

“ That is all that troubles me. If it wasn’t for her, I 
would go to the deputy sheriff and give myself up. But it 
will all come out.” 

“ It need not. Only you and I know anything about it — 
except Mary.” 

“ Yes ; there is another man who must know all about .t.” 

“ Another ! ” 

“ There was somebody with Buckstone on the beach.” 

“ That’s bad ; you didn’t tell me of this before.” 

“ I didn’t even think of it.” 

“ Who was the person ? ” 


DOCTOR BILKS. 


H3 


“ I don’t know,” replied Ross, who seemed to feel no in- 
terest in this part of this business. ‘‘ I heard them talking.” 

“Did you hear what they said?” demanded the doctor, 
sharply. 

“ I did hear something that was said, but not much. I 
didn’t expect the villain was on the island then. I was 
going over to the Port to find him. I got into my boat, and 
pulled out a little way ; then I saw a boat on the beach, and 
went back. I took the path over to the bluff, walking on 
the grass, so as not to make a noise. When I got to the 
rocks above the beach, I heard them talking.” 

“ What did they say? ” asked the doctor, eagerly. 

“ I heard Buckstone say he intended to marry her, at 
first, and then he did not. I didn’t want to hear any more. 
I went after a club then ; I found one ; and when I came 
back, they were talking about a consideration for marrying 
my sister. My God ! how my blood boiled ! I moved for- 
ward then ; Buckstone ran, and I followed him. I finished 
him, and pitched him over into the channel.” 

“ But who was this other man?” asked the doctor, ner- 
vously. 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Did you see him? ” 

“ Yes ; but it was dark.” 

“ Couldn’t you tell anything about him?” 

“ No ; he was a man about your size.” 

Dr. Bilks was startled. 

“ What did he wear? ” 

“ He wore an overcoat ; it was too dark to see anything.” 

“What did he do?” 

“ Nothing. I saw him go down to the boat. I don’t 
know where he went.” 

“ Ross, did you let this man go without finding out who 
or what he was ? ” demanded Dr. Bilks, impressively. 

“ I did not care anything about him.” 

“ Where did he go ? ” 


144 the way of the world. 

“ I don’t know ; after I had done my work, I went back 
to the house, and didn’t even think of the other man.” 

“ You say this man was hiring Buckstone to mair}^' your 
sister.” 

“ I didn’t say so.” 

“ Yes, you did ; you spoke of a consideration.” 

“ I don’t know who offered it, or what it meant. It was 
all Greek to me.” 

“ Perhaps it was Mr. Ilungerford,” suggested Dr. Bilks. 

“ No, it was not ! ” replied Ross, decidedly. 

‘‘ How do you know ? ” 

“ Do you think he would bribe Buckstone to many my 
sister?” 

“ He has plenty of money.” 

“ He wouldn’t do that.” 

“ Perhaps he would. In my opinion, Ross, Mr. Hunger- 
ford was the man.” 

“ It was not ! He is taller than this man.” 

“ It might have been Mr. Birch, acting for Hungerford.” 

“ It might have been ; but I don’t believe it was.” 

“ I am satisfied that it was Mr. Birch. In fact, he told 
me that, as soon as Mr. Hungerford came home, he should 
compel Buckstone to make your sister an honest woman.” 

“ He told you so? ” 

“Yes ; he acts from the best of motives, Ross. His only 
object was to save your sister from disgrace.” 

The boat had touched at the Port, and the conversation 
was interrupted. Dr. Bilks seemed to be entirely satisfied 
that he had given a correct solution of the problem in regard 
to the stranger on the island. Ross was still sceptical. As 
the doctor walked up the street towards his office, the boat- 
man pulled back to the island. 

Dr. Bilks entered his office. The bad case beyond the 
Port, which had kept him up till two, as he had told Ross, 
and the case at the island, which had then kept him up till 
four, had consumed nearly all the hours of the night, and 


DOCTOR BILKS. 


H5 


he must have been a very 'weary man. We must do him 
the justice to say that he was tired on this occasion ; that he 
even looked haggard and pale. His bed was in the room 
in the rear of his office ; but exhausted as he was, he did not 
retire like a reasonable man. Throwing himself into an arm- 
chair, he was soon buried in deep thought. But a murder 
was an exciting event, and if his thoughts related to this 
startling affair, it was worth his attention. 

About sunrise he threw himself on the bed, but he did 
not sleep ; though, as it is certain he did not commit the 
murder on The Great Bell, it was not the gliost of the dead 
man which haunted the chambers of his soul. At eight 
o’clock his horse was brought to the door, as usual, and the 
doctor started to visit his patients. He drove down to the 
post office first, to receive his letters. 

“ Good morning, doctor,” said the postmaster. “ Any- 
thing new this morning?” 

“ I heard a startling rumor just now,” replied Dr. Bilks. 

‘‘ Indeed ! What was it? ” 

“ They say a man was murdered over on The Great Bell 
last night. Whether there is any trutli in it or not, I don’t 
know.” 

“ A man murdered ! ” 

“ So they say. I don’t know anjiiliing about it.” 

‘‘ Who was he?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Who killed him: ” 

“ I didn’t hear any particulars. Hadn’t you heard of it? ” 

Of course he had not ; neither had Dr. Bilks heard of 
it. Tills was tlie manner in which he kept silence, and en- 
deavored to save Ross Kingman from the consequences of 
his crime. 

The doctor went from house to house, where he had pa- 
tients, and repeated the startling rumor. In a couple of 
hours tiiere was not a man, woman, or child at the Port who 

13 


146 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


had not heard that a man had been murdered on The Gieal 
Bell. The deputy sheriff, the constables, the coroner, the 
selectmen heard of it; but the rumor was so confused now, 
that no one could tell whence it originated. 

The sheriff and the coroner went down to the island 
They could find no murdered man. But they went to the 
house of Captain Kingman. They saw Ross, and asked 
him what he knew about the horrid affair. He knew all 
abc it, and believing the stranger on the beach — probably 
Mr. Birch — had charged him wdth the crime, he was not 
willing to add even a single falsehood to his guilt. Ross 
Kingman was too manly to lie, though he could slay the 
betrayer of his suffering sister. He told the whole truth, 
and conducted the sheriff and the coroner to the place where 
the deed had been done. Ross was arrested, and conveyed 
to the county jail. 

Mary was almost stunned by this blow, though Ross had 
already taught her to expect it. He told her that brothers 
and fathers, all over the county, would applaud rather than 
condemn the deed, and that she need have no fears for him. 
No jury would convict him. But the arrest had come sooner 
than even Ross expected, and she was not prepared to have 
him borne from her bedside so soon. 

All the rest of that day men were dragging the channel, 
and searching on the shores of the river, for the dead body 
of Eliot Buckstone. Nothing was talked of in Poppleton 
but the murder. It was known that Mary had been deserted 
by her husband as soon as she came home. Then it was 
whispered that she had never been a wife. Evil-minded 
persons laughed, but most of the people pitied Mary, and 
condemned the wretch who had deceived her. They were 
prepared, therefore, for the final act of the tragedy, and the 
voice that condemned Buckstone applauded Ross Kingman. 
Many stout-hearted men declared that they would have done 
the same in defence of a daughter’s or a sister’s honor, and 


DOCTOR BILKS. 1 47 

that they would level the jail to the ground rather than per- 
mit Ross to suffer for what he had done. 

But they were law-abiding men, deeply as their feelings 
were stirred by the wrongs of Mary ; and after all, the 
people, in the persons of the twelve jurymen, were to de- 
cide whether Ross was “ guilty or not guilty.” 


148 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD 


CHAPTER XII. 

DICK BIRCH. 

r ' Ross Kingman was not the calmest man in Poppleton 
on the morning following the murder of Eliot Buckstone, 
it was only because Mary was a sufferer by his act of retri- 
bution. She seemed to be better as the morning advanced. 
She nerved herself to bear everytliing, though it was terrible 
to have her brother borne from her presence on such a grave 
charge, to spend weeks or months in a cell of the common 
jail. She suffered, but she endeavored to endure all her 
woes with patience and resignation ; and when Ross left 
her, she had become the comforter, and spoke words of con- 
solation and hope to him. For his sake she was calm and 
gentle. 

Though from the first Ross had not intended to conceal 
what he had done, yet in Mary’s feeble condition, he did not 
mean to proclaim his guilt. But in the morning, when she 
was able to come down stairs, he was better prepared for 
the arrest, than if she had lain helpless on her bed. 

He asked the sheriff who had given the information of 
the murder of Buckstone. The officer did not know; it had 
passed from mouth to mouth, and the author of the story 
could not be identified. Ross did not suspect Dr. Bilks, but 
concluded that the person who had been with the deceased 
had started the rumor. It did not yet appear who this per- 
son was ; but the fact that Buckstone had a companion 
at the time of the murder was soon added to the sum to- 
tal of the information concerning the event, and circulated 


DICK BIRCH. 149 

tlirough the Port. Ross freely told all he knew of the circum- 
stances. 

Eugene Ilungerford rose early that morning, and walked 
through the Pine Hill grounds. . The improvements had all 
been made in accordance with the plans, and though he 
ought to have been delighted with the appearance of the 
place, he was as devoid of enthusiasm in the presence of his 
realized ideal as though he had no part or lot in it. He was 
still thinking of Maiy, and considering the plan by wliich 
her wounds were to be healed. After breakfast he was 
closeted in the office with Dick, who insisted that he should 
examine his papers and accounts. Eugene glanced at the 
balance in the Poppleton Bank, and at the total of his agent’s 
expenditures during his absence. He manifested no interest 
in the model houses, and as soon as possible changed the 
topic to the one which had occupied his thoughts all the 
morning. At eleven o’clock, when Dr. Bilks drove up to 
the door, they were still engaged in discussing this interesting 
question. 

Dr. Bilks was admitted at once, and duly introduced to 
Eugene, who had already been informed of the doctor’s kind- 
ness and care for poor Mary during her illness. There was 
no better passport to the favor of the disappointed lover than 
acts of this description. 

“And how is your patient now. Dr. Bilks?” asked Eu- 
gene, after he had cordially greeted the physician. 

“ She was not so well when I visited her this morning,’’ 
replied the doctor, in a subdued and rather embarrassed tone, 
as though he was not willing to tell the whole tmth at once. 

“ Is she worse?” demanded Eugene. 

“ Not absolutely worse ; but she was in a state of high 
neiwous excitement,” added Dr. Bilks, looking with apparent 
interest and sympathy at Eugene. “ Of course you must 
have heard what happened on The Great Bell last night.” 

“ No ; what was it?” asked Eugene, in breathless anxiety. 

It may seem strange that, at this hour, he had not heard 

13 * 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


*50 

what had happened on The Great Bell ; but, as Pine Hill 
was a mile from the Port, and neither Dick Birch nor him- 
self had been off the place, the news had not reached those 
who were most interested. 

“ Mr. Buckstone visited Mary last evening,” continued the 
doctor, cautiously feeling his way, before he imparted ti'.e 
news. 

“ Buckstone ! ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Was it that which made Mary worse? ” 

“ Not that alone. Her brother unfortunately saw him.” 

“ I feared it,” said Eugene, nervously. “ I hope nothing 
serious occurred.” 

“ Nothing more seiious could have occurred.” 

“ Good Heaven ! You don’t mean ” 

Eugene paused and trembled. 

“ Ross is a terrible fellow in his anger,” added Dr. Bilks. 

“What did he do?” demanded Eugene. 

“ He found Buckstone over by the cliff, and struck him a 
blow which felled him to the ground.” 

“Did it kill him?” asked Eugene, shuddering. 

“ Perhaps not ; but Ross then threw him over the cliff 
into the river.” 

“ O Heaven ! This is teiTible ! I ought not to have per- 
mitted Ross to leave me after what he said.” 

“ Don’t reproach yourself, Hungerford. Of course you 
had no reason to suppose Buckstone was within two hundred 
miles of Poppleton,” interposed Dick Birch. 

“ Certainly there is no occasion to attach any blame to 
yourself, Mr. Hungerford,” added Dr. Bilks. 

“ Poor Mary ! ” sighed Eugene. “ This is another heavy 
weight added to her burden. But how is she, doctor? How 
does she bear it? ” 

“ Much better than I expected she would. Ross came for 
me about two o’clock this morning. He told me what he 
had done, on the way to the island,” 


DICK BIRCH. 


151 

Dr. Bilks then narrated with great minuteness all the par 
ticulars of his visit to Mary, and all that Ross had told him 
about the circumstances attending the murder. 

“ I did not intend to say a word of the matter, but this 
morning I found that the story was flying through the 
Port.” 

“But who told it, if you did not?” demanded Dick 
Birch. 

“ I don’t know. The sheriff* has arrested Ross, and taken 
him to the county jail.” 

“You say there was a man with Buckstone on the 
island?” 

“ So Ross told me.” 

“Who was he?” 

“ That is what I would like to know,” replied the doctor. 
“ Ross told me that this person offered Buckstone a ‘ consid- 
eration ’ for marrying Mary. Of course he was an interest- 
ed party. I at once concluded that this person was Mr. 
Birch.” 

“ Dick ! ” exclaimed Eugene. 

“ You remember the plan you mentioned to me, Mr. 
Birch, for making everything all right with the poor girl?” 

“ I did speak to you about it ; and I have spoken to Mr. 
Hungerford about it since his return ; but I never proposed 
to offer Buckstone a consideration for marrying her. I would 
have hung him to the nearest tree, before I would have given 
him a dollar,” replied Dick, indignantly. 

“Then you were not the person with Buckstone ? ” said 
Dr. Bilks. 

“ I was not ! Most decidedly, I was not ! ” answered Dick, 
emphatically, and rather disgusted with the doctor for en- 
tertaining such a thought, even for an instant. 

“ I might have known that a gentleman of your lofty prin 
ciples and high sense of honor would not have done even 
this good deed surreptitiously,” added Dr. Bilks, apologeti- 


'52 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


cally, “ When I supposed you were the person, I attributed 
to you none but the best of motives.” , 

“ You do me no more than justice, doctor,” said Dick. 

But who was this person ? ” 

“ That’s a mystery to me. I know of no one, except 
Mary’s own friends, who are interested in having justice done 
to her.” 

“ Poor Mary ! ” sighed Eugene. “ She is a widow now.” 

“ If she was a wife, she is a widow,” added the doctor. 
“ It appears that Buckstone told her that he did not him- 
self know whether they were married or not. You are a 
lawyer, Mr. Birch ; perhaps you can decide the question.” 

“ Without evidence, I cannot. As at present informed, I 
do not think it was a legal marriage.” 

“ I am no lawyer, but I differ from you,” said the doctor, 
with a smile. 

“ We will not discuss this question now,” interposed Eu- 
gene. “ Let us do what we can for Ross. Dick, you must 
get the best lawyer in the state to defend him. Mary must 
be suffering terribly.” 

“Yes ; I shall visit her at once,” said the doctor. 

Dick proposed that Dr. Bilks should be presented to the 
ladies, and they went to the sitting-room for this purpose. 
The story of the murder had to be told again ; and Mrs. 
Hur.gerford and Julia were shocked at the tale. They wept 
for poor Mary, tortured anew by this agonizing event, and 
both of them anxiously studied the face of Eugene to dis- 
cover the effect upon him. He was calm, but he was paler 
than usual. 

“ But I must bid you good morning, ladies,” said Dr. 
Bilks. “ My next visit will be to Mary.” 

“ Mother, don’t you think I might do something for Mary? 
I suppose she is alone,” added Julia. 

“ You might comfort her, Julia. It would be kind of you,” 
exclaimed Eugene, before Mrs. Hungerford had time to 
answe'* the question. 


DICK BIRCH. 15^^ 

“ I think you would be of more seiwice to her than 1 
could/’ continued Dr. Bilks. 

“ \\ e will both go, Julia,” said her mother. 

“ Her sickness is of the heart rather than the body, and 
kind friends are better for her than medicines,” added Dr, 
Bilks. “ But I think one would be better than two.” 

“ I will go alone, mother. Mary and I were always good 
friends.” 

“ Very well, if Dr. Bilks thinks best.” 

The doctor did think best, and gave his reasons for the 
opinion, which were quite satisfactory to Mrs. Hungerford. 
The carriage was ordered for Julia, and it was arranged that 
Dr. Bilks should join her at the wharf, where they would 
take a boat for the island. While they were considering the 
matter, the morning mail was brought in, and Eugene 
glanced at his letters. He opened one of them. 

“ Mr. Lester is coming to Poppleton to spend a week with 
us,” said he. “ I wrote to him from London that I should 
expect him.” 

“ We’ll give the old fellow a jolly time,” added Dick, 
lightly. 

“ Whom did you say? ” asked Dr. Bilks. 

“Mr. Lester; he is one of the trustees of my uncle’s 
will.” 

“John Lester? ” 

“ Yes. Do you know him ? ” 

“ Not personally ; I think he had a son in college with 
■’le. When does he come?” 

“ Next week. He is an excellent man, doctor, and you 
must know him. You must help us entertain him.” 

“ This is very unlucky for me,” replied Dr. Bilks, evident- 
ly much troubled. “ I must be absent from town next 
week.” 

“ O, no ; you must be here when the old gentleman 
( omes,” said Dick. “ We shall give him some big din 
ners.” 


»54 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ Nothing would afford me more pleasure ; but I ha/e an 
imperative engagement in New York. I am very sorry.’’ 

Dr. Bilks was uneasy, and seemed to be thinking of some 
way by which he could postpone his engagement, and have 
the pleasure of meeting the eminent merchant from Balti- 
more. It was veiy unfortunate, but it could not be helped ; 
this was the conclusion he had reached, as the carriage for 
Julia drew up at the front door. The doctor drove to the 
Port, and joined Julia on the wharf. A boatman rowed 
them across the channel, and they walked up to the house. 
Dr. Bilks was a gentleman of good taste, and of course he 
could not fail to appreciate the beauty and grace of his 
charming companion. He made himself very agreeable. 

They found Mary in the parlor below, and alone there. 
She was calm, though the evidences of her suffering were 
apparent in every line of her countenance. 

“ I have brought you a new physician,” said the doctor, 
as they entered the room. 

“ This is very kind of you, Julia,” replied Mary, taking 
the odered hand of the visitor. 

“ I am very glad to see you. I hope you are better ; ” 
and Julia talked and acted like a true friend. 

The doctor gave his professional advice, and though he 
lingered much longer than was necessary, paying more at- 
tention to the visitor than to the patient, he departed at last, 
and left Julia to attempt the cure which he was powerless 
to accomplish. 

“ I cannot help thinking how kind it is of you to come to 
me at such a time, Julia,” said Mary, wiping away the terrs 
called forth by the sympathy of her early friend. 

“ I could not help coming, when I heard how much you 
were suffering.” 

“ None of my friends have been to see me before.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

“ But I cannot blame them. What am I now?” 


DICK BIRCH. 15^ 

‘‘ You are the same good girl you always were 1 ” replied 
Julia, with generous earnestness. 

“ I am afraid not.” 

“ Yes, you are.” 

“ No ; I am an outcast now, scorned and despised. Julia 
glad as I am to see you, I am sorry you have come.” 

“ Why should you be sorry?” 

“ I’m afraid it will injure you. You know why my friends 
desert me.” 

“ But I will not desert you. You have been wronged ; but 
you are true and good, as you always were. It was not 
your fault.” 

“ I’m afraid it was — partly, at least.” 

“ It would have been better if you had never met Mr. 
Buckstone, it is true ; but you are not to blame.” 

“ I wish I could feel that I had not done wrong.” 

“ You may have made a mistake, but you have done no 
wrong; and you shall not be cast down for your misfor- 
tunes.” 

“It is the way of the world, Julia ; and I can never be to 
others what I was before.” 

“ But you shall be, Mary. If all the rest of the world 
desert you, our family will still adhere to you.” 

“I am afraid you don’t understand it, Julia. Though I 
may not be guilty, I shall be shunned as one contaminated ; 
those whom I have known in brighter days will no longer 
associate with me.” 

“We shall see, Mary,” said Julia, proudly. “You shall 
come to our house. You shall be our guest'; and if other 
people dare to insult you by word or look, they are not our 
friends ! ” 

Julia, in her generous thoughts, regarded the position 
which wealth gave her family in society as a blessing then. 
If the Hungerfords countenanced the poor, betrayed girl, 
who should dare to cast her out? Julia was high-spirited 


£56 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


and magnanimous, but she knew not to what a trial hei 
generosity was to be subjected. 

“ I will not permit you to injure yourself for me, Julia. 
I am resigned to my fate. You see how calm I am ; and 
she smiled faintly. 

It would not injure me.” 

“And I am the sister of — of a murderer!” she added, 
with a perceptible shudder. 

“ That is not your fault.” 

“ But it will add to my disgrace. No, Julia, you shall not 
wrong yourself by associating with me. As soon as I am 
able, I will go away from Poppleton, and hide myself from 
the world.” 

“ Indeed, you shall not ! You shall have the best and 
truest friends here. When Ross is acquitted, as all say he 
will be, you shall be happy again.” 

“Never in this world, Julia. I have become what I 
dreaded more than all other miseries combined.” 

“You have not, Mary ; you were married.” 

“ No, I was not ; he told me so not an hour before he fell 
3y Ross’s hand. I shall not call myself Mary Buckstone 
again. Now you despise me.” 

“ I do not, Mary ; you wrong me,” replied Julia ; but il 
must be acknowledged that she was struggling to overcome 
a certain sensation of dread and horror which she could 
hardly define. 

“ Now you know what I am, you may leave me ; and 1 
will think kindly of you, as one who wished to be my friend.” 

“ And I shall be your friend, whatever you are,” added 
Julia, resolutely ; “ and I am sure my mother and my brother 
will be. Eugene has been — he has been very sorry for 
you.” 

She was not quite certain that she ought to say anything 
about Eugene, and she suppressed the sentence she was 
about to utter, substituting another. 

Mary was moody and thoughtful wdien Eugene’s name 


mCK BlRCtt. 


*55 


was mentioned , and it did not require much skill on the 
part of Julia to discover the nature of her reflections. But 
what had been could no longer be, and her brother had 
ceased to think of the poor girl, except as a sympathizing 
friend. The afternoon was passed away in these conversa- 
tions, and Mary was much consoled by the words, but per- 
haps more by the presence and the generous indorsement, of 
Julia. 

Just before sunset, Eugene’s small schooner touched at the 
landing-place on The Great Bell. It contained three per- 
sons ; and after Dick Birch had gone up to the house for 
Jul.a, Dr. Bilks and Eugene walked over to the spot where 
the murder had been committed. The island had been 
visited by hundreds of curious persons during the afternoon, 
who desired to examine the locality of the terrible affair. 
The deputy sheriff was there when they arrived, making 
another visit to the spot for the purpose of obtaining further 
information in regard to the circumstances. The sheriff was 
in possession of all the facts imparted by Ross Kingman, 
and he was now examining the beach, where the stranger 
was last seen by the prisoner. 

“ It’s a plain case,” said the official to Eugene, after they 
had shaken hands, and spoken of the event in general 
terms. “ Ross don’t cover up anything, but he thinks it is 
not murder to kill such a man.” 

“ He was very much exasperated by the conduct of Buck- 
stone. Has any new discovery been made?” 

“We have got a clew to the man who was with Buck- 
stone,” replied the sheriff. 

“ Ah ! Have you ? ” said Dr. Bilks, nervously. 

“We have found the boat in which Buckstone and the 
other man came over to the island.” 

“ Where did you find it?” 

“ Over by the Point.” 

“ How do you know it was the boat in which they came 
over?” 


H 


158 THE WAY OF THE WORLI 

“ It was hauled up on the sand ; there,” said he, pointing 
to the marks of the boat, “ you can see the prints of the lap 
streaks. That deep mark was made by a ledge on the boat, 
nailed on to keep the bottom from chafing. I brought the 
boat over here, and measured the distance between the keel 
and this ledge, and it exactly corresponded with these prints.” 

“ What does this prove in regard to the man with Buck- 
stone ? ” 

“ It proves that he landed there by the Point, for one thing. 
A handkerchief and a cigar were found in the boat. Here 
they are,” he added, producing the articles. “ Do you know 
tliem ? ” 

The handkerchief had the letters R. B. upon it. 

“ By Heaven ! this is Dick Birch’s handkerchief! ” ex- 
claimed Eugene. 

‘‘ Impossible ! ” ejaculated Dr. Bilks. ‘‘ He declared that 
he was not the person, you remember.” 

“ But he was the person,” added the sheriff, decidedly. 

“Why do you say he was?” demanded Eugene, who 
would as readily have believed Dick Birch guilty of the 
murder as of the duplicity and falsehood. 

“ Ross Kingman thought it was Mr. Birch.” 

“ Did he say so?” 

“ He did.” 

“ Did he say positively it was Mr. Birch?” 

“ Not positively.” 

“ Let me see the cigar. Dick smokes a peculiar brand,” 
continued Eugene, excitedly. 

The sheriff handed him the cigar, and it was carefully 
examined by Eugene and the doctor. 

“ That’s Dick’s brand, without a doubt,” replied Eugene, 
bewildered by the conclusion thus forced upon him. 

“ Here he comes ; he will speak for himself,” added the 
doctor, as Dick and Julia descended the rocks to the beach. 

Julia had expressed a desire to see the spot where the 
murder was committed, and Dick had taken her to the cliff 


DICK BIRCH. 150 

for this purpose. Seeing Eugene and Dr. Bilks on the beach, 
they joined them there. 

‘‘Where did you leave this handkerchief, Dick?” asked 
Eugene, as his friend approached the spot. 

“ I’m sure I don’t know,” he answered, taking the hand- 
kerchief. “Where did you find it?” 

“ Did you lose it, Dick?” 

“ I suppose I did, if you found it, though I hadn’t missed 
it. Did you find it here?” 

“ No ; it was not found here,” replied the sheriff. 

“Is this one of your cigars, Dick?” 

“ Yes ; you can’t find such cigars as that at any shop this 
side of Boston ; and I don’t think you can find them there now. 
That’s one of my brand. Did you find it with the handker- 
chief?” 

“It was found with the handkerchief,” said Eugene, 
averting his sad face. 

“ What does all this mean ? What ails you, Hungeidbrd ? ” 
demanded Dick, astonished at the singular conduct of his 
friend. 

“ I suppose he doesn’t want to say much about it,” inter- 
posed the sherifi'; “ and I will do the talking.” 

“Will you? You will oblige me by doing it as speedily 
as possible,” replied Dick, whose flushed and indignant face 
sufficiently explained his feelings. 

“You are believed to be tlie person who was with Mr. 
Buclcstone at the time he was murdered, or just before the 
event.” 

“Who believes me to be the person?” asked Dick, who 
seemed to grow an inch taller, as his head was involuntarily 
thrown back by the impulse of his natural pride. 

“ I do, for one,” answered the deputy sheriff. 

“ What reason have you for thinking so ? ” 

“ Because your handkerchief, and one of your cigars, 
which can only be obtained in Boston, were found in the 


l6o THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

boat that made those marks on the beach,” answered the 
official, pointing to the prints. 

“ They were found in that boat — were they?” said Dick, 
apparentl}'^ as much astonished as Eugene. 

“ They were ; more than this, Ross Kingman, who thinks 
as much of you as of any other man in the world, — unless 
it be JNIr. Hungerford, — believes that you were the man he 
saw with Mr. Buckstone.” 

“ I have nothing to say,” replied Dick. 

“ Speak, Dick ! Tell me it is not so, and I will believe 
you before all the rest of the world ! ” exclaimed Eugene. 

“ Not a word, Hungerford, to-night,” answered Dick, 
proudly. “ I am not prepared to speak yet.” 

Don’t be angry with me, Dick.” 

“ Certainly not, Hungerford. There is my hand,” said 
Dick. “ Appearances are against me. When I have cleared 
myself of the charge of falsehood, I will come into your 
presence again, but not till then.” 

“ Come, Dick,” added Eugene, taking his hand ; “ this 
shall not part us even for an hour.” 

“ It must ; I told you and Dr. Bilks this morning that I was 
not the person. You despise a liar ; so do I. Good night, 
Hungerford;” and springing up the rocks, he disappeared 
beyond the bluff, heeding not the calls of his friend. 

Before the party could reach the landing-place, he was 
seen in a boat crossing the channel towards the Port. 


DICK UNDER A SHADOW. 


l6l 


CHAPTER xni. 

DICK UNDER A SHADOW. 

“ TT THAT does all this mean, Eugene?” asked Julia, 
▼ » perplexed and troubled by the singular conduct of 
Dick Birch, as well as by the facts which had been devel- 
oped by the deputy sheriff. 

“ I don’t know, Julia ; it is all as new to me as it is to 
) oil,” replied Eugene. 

“ With what is he charged?” 

“ With nothing. Miss Hungerford,” intei*posed the sherifl', 
wishing to remove any wrong impression from her mind. 
“ If Mr. Birch was with Mr. Buckstone at the time of the 
murder, or just before, we should like to use him as a wit- 
ness.” 

“Mr. Birch says he was not with him.” 

“ I see no reason why he should deny the fact, if it is a 
fact,” said Eugene. “ If he met Buckstone, he did so with 
the best of motives.” 

“ I have no doubt of it,” added Dr. Bilks, who had all this 
time been watching the effect upon Julia. “ Mr. Birch is 
one of the truest and noblest men it was ever my good for 
tune to meet.” 

“ But the evidence goes to show that he was with Buck- 
stone ; that he was the person whom Ross Kingman saw 
with him,” continued the sheriff. “ I shall be obliged to fol- 
low up Mr. Birch till he can give me a satisfactory account 
of himself at the time of the murder.” 

14 ♦ 


[62 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ Ross left me at nine o’clock last evening,” continued 
Eugene, recalling the circumstances. 

“Did you see Mr. Birch after that time?” asked the 
sheriff. 

“ I did.” 

“ Dick was with mother and me till we heard Ross leave 
the house,” said Julia. “ Then he went into the library, 
where you were ; and we were so tired that we went to bed 
immediately.” 

“ Mr. Birch joined me in the library just after Ross left 
me. I told him what had passed between us, and that I 
feared, if Ross saw Buckstone, he would do some rash deed ; 
but he seemed to have no fears.” 

“ Did he say anything about Mr. Buckstone’s being in 
town ? ” asked the sheriff. 

“ Not a word.” 

“ Did you have any conversation with him about Buck- 
stone, after your return yesterday ? ” 

“ I did ; he proposed to send for Buckstone, and remove 
all doubts in regard to Mary’s marriage, by having it per- 
formed over again.” 

“ Precisely so ; then he had business with Buckstone,” 
said the sheriff. “ What time did you leave Mr. Birch? ” 

“ He went into the office about half past nine ; and being 
exhausted by my journey, and the want of sleep on my voy- 
age, I retired.” 

“You left him in the office? ” 

“ I did.” 

“ Did any of your servants see him after this time?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ I should like to question them before I see Mr. Birch 
again,” added the officer, who seemed to be satisfied that he 
was making out a case. 

“ I will give you all the assistance in my power, but I am 
perfectly satisfied that Mr. Birch will conceal nothing,” 
replied Eugene, confidently. 


DICK UNDBR A SHADOW. 1 63 

I do not know that he has any reason to conceal any- 
thing.” 

“ It is possible that he intended to settle up this unpleasant 
affair of Buckstone’s marriage — in which, for Mary’s sake, 
I have taken some interest — without troubling me.” 

“ But he said distinctly that he was not with Buckstone,” 
interposed Dr. Bilks ; “ and when Mr. Birch says a thing, 
he means it. In my opinion, he was not with him. I will 
take his word for it against all the circumstances that can 
combine against him.” 

This was confiding, generous, and even magnanimous on 
the part of Dr. Bilks, and Julia bestowed a smile of grateful 
acknowledgment upon him. 

“ I agree with you entirely, doctor ; but it will be doing 
Dick a favor to inquire into the matter.” 

The sheriff had no further business on the island, and he 
accepted Eugene’s invitation to accompany him to Pine Hill. 
Dr. Bilks was very attentive to Julia, and while the other 
two gentlemen talked about the murder, he made himself as 
agreeable as possible to her. He assured her that Dick was 
incapable of deceit ; if the handkerchief and cigar had been 
found in the boat, some one else had placed them there. It 
was not possible that even the suspicion of duplicity should 
rest upon him, and it W'ould all be satisfactorily cleared up 
within a few days, if not hours. The carriage was waiting 
on the wharf when the boat arrived, and the whole party 
started for Pine Hill. When they reached the mansion, the 
sheriff was conducted to the library, and all the servants 
were sent for ; but none of them had seen Mr, Birch after 
Eugene retired for the night. 

The man servant thought he heard him go out at the front 
Joor about half past nine, but was not very sure. It was 
this man’s business to see that the front door was locked, the 
windows fastened, and all the fires and lights extinguished 
before he went to bed ; and he had attended to this duty, as 
usual, about ten o’clock. 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


164 

“ Was the front door locked?” asked the sheriff. 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Did you lock it? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Why not?” 

“Because I thought Mr. Birch might be oat.” 

“ Did you know he was out?” 

“ No ; I only thought so, because I had heard the dool 
open, as I said.” 

“ Are you sure you heard the door opened? ” 

“ I’m not certain. There is a night lock on the door, so 
that it was fastened.” 

“ What time does Mr. Birch usually retire?” 

“ About ten or eleven.” 

“ Why didn’t you go to his room, and see whether he was 
in or not?” asked the sheriff. 

“ Because I didn’t want to disturb him, if he had gone to 
bed.” 

“ Then you went to bed leaving the door unlocked?” 

“ It was fastened by the night lock.” 

“ How did you find it this morning?” 

“Just as I left it last night.” 

“ Did you go to Mr. Birch’s room this morning?” 

“ I never go to his room ; it isn’t my business.” 

“Who makes the bed?” 

“ The chambermaid, of course.” 

The chambermaid was called. Mr. Birch’s bed had been 
occupied. No one knew that he had gone out, after half 
past nine ; no one knew that he had not. Parkinson, the 
man servant in the house, was a sharp, intelligent mulatto, 
imported from the city. He was strongly attached to Dick, 
and did not understand what the sheriff wislied to make out 
of him. He did not know whether it would sei*ve Dick best 
to show that he had gone out, or that he had not gone out, 
at the time specified ; and he was one of those pliant wit- 
nesses who can be bent to serve a friend. It is quite possible 


DICK UNDER A SlUVDOW. 1 65 

that, if he had comprehended the case, he would not have 
‘‘ thought” that he heard the door opened at half past nine. 
He was not certain of anything which was important in the 
matter. 

Though no evidence was obtained to show that Dick was 
not in the house at the time when he was alleged to have 
been with Buckstone, the absence of proof to establish the 
fact that he was there, was vexatious to his devoted friends. 
Eugene desired to see Ross Kingman, and to hear his testi- 
mony on this interesting point ; and when the sheriff depart- 
ed, it was with the promise to accompany him to the jail for 
this purpose. 

Dr. Bilks was invited to tea. His attentions to poor Mary 
had already made Eugene his friend, while his devotion to 
the ladies had rendered him a welcome guest, particularly 
to Julia, to whom his vigorous defence of Dick was even 
more than satisfactory. It was quite true that no expres- 
sions of love had passed between Julia and Dick Birch, but 
it was just as patent to the rest of the family that they were 
interested in each other. So the doctor made himself popu- 
lar by espousing the cause of the absent friend. 

After tea Eugene and the doctor went to the library to 
smoke. Though the acquaintance between them had com- 
menced in the forenoon of that day. Dr. Bilks knew enough 
of his host’s relations with the Kingman family to make him- 
self a confidant, so far as these relations were concerned ; 
and Eugene did not scruple to speak unreservedly to him. 
Indeed, now that Dick was under the shadow of a suspicion, 
and had withdrawn himself from the house for a time, he 
congratulated himself upon having a person at hand to whom 
he could speak. Eugene was not content to let Dick bear 
his burden alone ; and when the sheriff left, he had sent 
Parkinson with a note to The Bell River House, where he 
concluded his friend had gone, entreating him to come to 
Pine Hill. The sei*vant had not yet returned. 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


l66 

“ Before I can get rid of one trouble, another is cast upon 
me/’ said Eugene, as he lighted his cigar. 

“ That is often the way in this world,” replied the doctor. 

“Perhaps you think I have no right to trouble myself 
about this murder ; but I assure you I regard it almost as a 
family affair. When Mary Kingman went off with Buck- 
stone, I was robbed of more than half I had to live for in 
this world. I haven’t been myself since.” 

“ Perhaps I had no right to know anything of a matter so 
private as this ought to be ; but as the lady’s physician, Mr. 
Birch gave me full information in regard to your relations 
with the poor girl. I sympathize with you. But perhaps 
good may come out of all these evils.” 

“What good can come out of them?” 

“ Pardon me, if I am blunt; do you still love the lady?” 

“ With all my soul ! ” replied Eugene, fervently. 

“ I had hoped your foreign travel would remove the im- 
pression from your mind.” 

“ It was more than an impression. Dr. Bilks. I did not 
know how much I loved her till I had lost her. In spite of 
all that has happened, she is the same to me now that she 
was a year ago, before Buckstone came into the place.” 

“ That is unfortunate.” 

“Why unfortunate?” demanded Eugene, earnestly. 

“Well, the circumstances have changed.” 

“ What circumstances? ” 

“ Whatever the truth may be, it is generally understood 
that she has been a mother without being a wife.” 

“ True.” 

“ As the world goes, her reputation is blasted, aad she can 
no longer be received in good society.” 

“ She shall be received in good society ! ” exclaimed Eu- 
gene, leaping out of his chair, and pacing the room with 
violent strides. 

“ I say nothing of the merits of this case. I speak only 
of the way of the world,” added Dr. Bilks, mildly apologizing 


DICK UNDER A SHADOW. 


167 


for repeating what he would not advance as his own in- 
dividual thought. 

“ I understand you, doctor. You may as well know now 
what all the world shall know one of these days. Mary is 
still mine ! ” said Eugene, with energy, as he paused before 
the doctor’s chair. “All earth shall not rob me of lier 
again ! ’’ 

“ I can understand your feelings,” interposed Dr. Bilks, 
soothingly. 

“ I am no hypocrite ; and I could hardly conceal the joy 
I felt when I heard of this murder.” 

“For God’s sake, Mr. Hungerford, don’t say that,” pro- 
tested the doctor. 

“ I feel it ; why should I not say it?” 

“ It would not be prudent. If you expressed such a 
thought, people would suspect you of instigating Ross King- 
man to the commission of the crime,” said Dr. Bilks, whose 
solicitude for the good name of his new friend was fully 
expressed in his face. 

“ I do not mean joy at the murder.” 

“ Of course not.” 

“ I only rejoiced that Mary was free again. I would not 
have injured Buckstone. I made Ross promise not to harm 
him, if he met him, though I had no suspicion that he was 
in Poppleton.” 

“ Certainly ; I understand you. But you would not tliink 
of marrying Mary now?” 

“ I will think of it now, and do it as soon as the circum- 
stances will permit. Of course I say this to you in confi- 
dence.” 

“ Of course ; that is fully understood.” 

“ I will do it if she will consent.” 

“ She will, without doubt.” 

“ She mariied this Buckstone under the pressure of terri- 
ble circumstances. It was all my fault that she did so ; and 
I will atone for my error in the only way open to me.” 


i68 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ I am afraid the public voice will condemn you.” 

“ Let it condemn me.” 

“ What do your mother and sister say ? ” 

“ I have not spoken to them. They may regret, but the;y 
will not oppose my decision. I believe that Mary loves me 
now, as I love her. To me she is as pure as she was the 
day she was born. My friends will object, but I cannot help 
it. She shall be my wife, if she will ; and if she cannot be 
respected and honored as such here, I will go with her to 
the farthest verge of the country in search of a home. I do 
not ask whether she is a widow or a castaway. She is to 
me now what she has been for years. What I say to you 
to-day, I shall say to her to-morrow. Let the world con- 
demn me, if it will. I shall live for my own heart, not for 
the applause of the multitude.” 

‘‘ A man with three millions can afford to be independent 
in such a matter.” 

“ I have no three millions ; I may never have.” 

“ Your present decision points in that direction, as I have 
understood your uncle’s will.” 

“ Thus far the three millions have been a curse to me. 
Mary would have been mine before now, if the three mil-x 
lions had not made me fearful of doing a mean thing. I act 
independently of this prospective fortune. I am beginning 
to be disgusted with it.” 

“Why so?” 

“ Because it seems to have caused all my troubles, to have 
cheated Mar}?^ out of a true love, and made her brother a 
murderer,” replied Eugene, with startling emphasis. “ I 
will make Mary my wife, though, come what may. Doctor, 
you do not say that I am wrong.” 

“ I do not think so. You have a soul ; you were born for 
noble deeds. I would do just what you intend to do. If I 
loved lier as you do, she should be my wife in a week.” 

“ I shall not use any unseemly haste.” 

“ The three millions may yet be yours.” 


niCK UNDER A SHADOW. 


169 


“ Bah ! 

“ If the three millions are not yours, to whom will they 
go?- 

“ Half a million will be mine ; the same amount will go 
to my sister, to a Dr. Lynch, and to each of three charitable 
associations yet to be founded.” 

“ Half a million to your sister ! ” exclaimed Dr. Bilks. 

Yes ; is there anything strange in that?” demanded 
Eugene. 

“ No ; O, no ! I was thinking of something ; but I will 
not mention it. The thought was a disagreeable one.” 

“ You need not fear to mention it.” 

“ Excuse me, I will not,” replied the doctor, blandly. “ It 
was an unpleasant suspicion, which does great injustice to 
a mutual friend. I will not mention it, for I am sure it is 
utterly groundless.” 

“What do you mean, doctor?” 

“ I am sorry I hinted it ; but it flashed across my mind, 
and I spoke before I thought of its meaning. I prefer to be 
silent.” 

“You say it concerns a mutual friend — of course you 
mean Mr. Birch.” 

“ Really, Mr. Hungerford, you must pardon me. Mr. 
Birch is above suspicion. If I did, for an instant, think 
what might be, I drove the idea from my mind the next 
instant.” 

“ I have sent for Dick Birch, doctor. I hope he will 
come. You know that his position is slightly in doubt just 
now. If you can say a word that will help me to explain 
it, you will confer a favor upon me,” persisted Eugene. 

“ If you will answer me a few questions, Mr. Hungerford, 
perhaps the thought which came to me may come to you, 
foi I will nof be guilty of causing you to suspect so true a 
friend as Mr. Birch.” 

“ Two hours ago, I would have knocked the man down 
who dared to say as much as that to me,” replied Eugene. 

15 


170 


THE WAY OF THE WOKLD. 


“ Then I had better be silent,” said Dr. Bilks, with a 
significant smile. “ He is my friend as well as yours. I 
am grateful to him for what he has been to me, and what 
he has done for me ; I would cut my tongue out rather than 
utter a word to his disparagement.” 

“ Ask your questions. Dr. Bilks,” continued Eugene, im- 
patiently. “ If Dick were not your friend, I would not heai 
you.” 

“ He is my friend, and I love and respect him. I would 
rather injure myself than injure him. If the thought which 
came to me does not come to you, I shall rejoice to feel that 
I was mistaken. Indeed, I feel so now.” 

“ Go on, doctor. If I am blind, open my eyes.” 

“According to Ross Kingman’s story, the man who was 
with Buckstone offered a consideration to him if he would 
marry Mary, and thus remove all legal doubts in regard to 
the union.” 

“ Ross told the sheriff the same story.” 

“ Do you know of any man in the world who has any- 
thing to gain by that marriage?” 

“ I do not. If Dick Birch hired Buckstone to marry her, 
it was in order to make her an honest woman. He pro- 
posed such a plan to me last night, and I assented to it. 
For her sake I desired it. I loved her, and I would have 
done anything to save her from even a day of misery.” 

“ Suppose, on further examination, the marriage had 
proved to be illegal and void, and that Buckstone had 
wholly deserted and abandoned her. What would you have 
done?” asked the doctor, looking sharply into the eye of 
Eugene. 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Would you have married her?” 

“ She would not have consented while Buckstone wai 
dive.” 

“ Would you, if she consented?” 

“ I would.” 


DICK UNDER A SHADOW. 


17) 


So I supposed.” 

“ Why should you suppose so?” 

“ Before you returned, I had a conversation with Mr. 
Birch. We both agreed that you would marry her, in spite 
of her position before the world.” 

“ I confess that such a thought occurred to me, even before 
I sailed from Liverpool.” 

“ I did not know you personally, Mr. Hungerford ; but 
from your friend’s eloquent description of your noble, but 
— you will pardon me — slightly eccentric character, I had 
no doubt that Mary would become Mrs. Hungerford, if she 
could lawfully be your wife. Mr. Birch was equally, 01 
rather more, confident, from his better knowledge of you.” 

“ What was Dick’s opinion of such a marriage?” 

“ He condemned it with all his might, while I favored it. 
We discussed the matter for hours together in this room.” 

“ Why did he condemn it?” 

“ Because it would lower you in the estimation of the 
world ; because you would be pointed at as the millionnaire 
who had married a — never mind what he called her.” 

“ Did he dare ” 

No, no, Mr. Hungerford ; it was nothing very bad ; a 
castaway — that was all.” 

“ But, after all, Dick was only thinking of my good name 
and reputation ; it was kind of him, even if he was mis- 
taken.” 

“Certainly it was; I honored him for his manl}' course, 
though I differed from him.” 

“ Is this the thought which I was expected to divine?” 

“ No, by no means. Did you ever observe that Mr. Birch 
was attentive to your sister?” 

“ Well, rather so ; I think they are inclined to be fond of 
each other. I have noticed it more since w’e returned than 
before,” replied Eugene, still struggling to grasp the mys- 
terious thought which had darkened the mind of his com- 
panion. 


tHE WAY OE THE WOftLH. 


Ill 

“ Mr. Birch was opposed to your marrying Mary ; and he 
feared that you would marry her.’* 

“Just so.” 

“ Naturally enough, he would prevent it.” 

“ Very likely ; he openly proposed to me to compel Buck- 
stone to marry her, on penalty of a criminal prosecution. 
If he was the person with Buckstone last night, there was 
nothing dishonorable or unfriendly in his conduct, for his 
action was consistent with the course upon which we had 
Agreed.” 

“ L id you authorize him to purchase Buckstone’s com- 
pliant.e r ” 

“ No, I did not ; but that does not materially affect the 
question.” 

“ It does not : I only wish to establish the point that Mr. 
Birch desired to bring about the marriage of Mary with 
Buckstone.” 

“ We grant that.” 

“ Why did he desire it?” 

“For Mary’s sake ; for mine, too, if you please. Both 
considerations were honorable and friendly towards me.” 

“ Entirely so, Mr. Hungerford,” said the doctor, warmly. 
“ One more question, if you please. Did you ever say any- 
thing to Mr. Birch about marrying, when Mary was utterly 
lost to you ? or could he, from his thorough knowledge of 
your disposition and character, have formed a correct idea 
as to whether you would or would not marry another?” 

Dr. Bilks looked interested and anxious when he proposed 
the question. 

“ I told him in so many words, before I went to Europe, 
that I should not marry at all, as Mary could not be mine ; 
and, he knew me well enough to believe what I said. The 
last thing I said to him was to the effect that the three mil- 
lions could never be mine.” 

“ Exactly so ; he told me, if you did not marry Mary, yo** 


DICK UNDER A SHADOW. 173 

would never marry. If at the age of thirty you have no 
son, what becomes of the three millions, did you say?” 

“ Half a million goes to me, half a million to my sis- 
ter ” 

“ Did you intimate that you thought Mr. Birch and your 
sister were disposed to be fond of each other?” interposed 
Dr. Bilks, in a kind of careless, indifferent manner. 

Eugene sprang to his feet. His face was deadly pale, and 
his lip quivered. He had grasped the doctor’s mysterious 
thought. Dick Birch wished to prevent the possibility of 
his marriage with Mary, that, with Julia, he might obtain 
the fortune of half a million ! It was a disgusting, revolt 
ing suspicion, and he was sick at heart. 

* 5 * 


74 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

IN THE LIBRARY. 

“ iy /TR- HUNGERFORD, I beg you will not g ve this 

-t-VX suggestion the slightest thought or attention. I am 
entirely satisfied that there cannot be the least ground for 
suspecting our friend Mr. Birch of unworthy motives,” 
interposed Dr. Bilks, when he observed Eugene’s distress. 
“ I am sure he has been a true friend, and far above any sel- 
fish considerations.” 

Eugene paced the room in violent agitation. Fie could 
not, he did not, believe that Dick Birch was capable of 
double-dealing with any body, and especially not with him. 

“You have compelled me to lead your mind in the direc- 
tion which my own travelled for an instant ; you dragged 
my thought out of me ; now I must insist that you banish 
the idea from your mind, as I did from mine,” continued the 
doctor, apparently much moved by the mischief he had been 
forced to do. 

“ Can I have been deceived in Dick Birch ! ” mused Eu- 
gene, as he walked the library. 

“ You have not been ; he is the same true and tried friend 
he has always been.” 

“ This money has cursed the whole of us ! ” exclaimed he. 

“Not at all, Mr. Hungerford. You wrong him; jou 
wrong yourself. Mr. Birch is as true as steel.” 

“Dick was poor, and in debt for his education, besides 
having a mother and three sisters partially dependent upon 
him,” continued Eugene, who appeared to be talking to 


£N THE LIBRARY. 1 75 

himself rather than to the doctor. “ It was a great temp- 
tation.” 

“ Whatever the temptation, I am sure Mr. Birch has not 
yielded, and has never cherished a selfish thought towards 
you or yours.” 

“Dr, Bilks, do you believe that Mr. Birch was the person 
who was with Buckstone last night?” demanded Eugene, 
stopping before the doctor’s chair. 

“ I am hardly prepared to say, Mr. Hungerford.” 

“You ha'ee heard all the evidence for and against him.” 

“ The evidence is very strong ; but in the face of it all, 
Mr. Birch declares that he was not the person. I am dis- 
posed to believe him, in spite of all the testimony against 
him.” 

“ I thank you for those words ; they are very comforting 
to me. If Dick’s word produces so strong an impression 
upon you, who have known him but for a few months, what 
effect should it produce upon me, who have been his inti- 
mate friend for years ! ” 

“ Mr. Hungerford, without fear or favor, without regard 
to the friendships of months or years, we wish to know the 
truth,” said the doctor, with a Brutus-like integrity. 

“Yes; you are right! If Dick has deceived me in the 
smallest particular, even for my own good, I will cast him 
off; I will renounce the friendship which I valued more than 
all the money in the world.” 

“ Let not your own integrity .blind you on the one hand, 
or 3'our friendship on the other,” added the doctor, solemnly. 
“ Be just.” 

“I will, if possible. What were you about to suggest?” 
asked Eugene, whose intuitive knowledge of the character 
of his companion assured him that this flourish was only the 
preliminary to another suggestion. 

“ I confess that I feel a painful interest in this matter,” 
continued the doctor ; “ and while nothing would afford me 
so much pleasure as to see our friend Birch completely vin* 


176 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


dicated, I feel compelled'to say that appearances are veiy 
strong against him. I am exceedingly sorry to say that his 
conduct on the beach to-night was not entirely satisfactory 
to me.” 

“ Why not?” demanded Eugene, abruptly. 

*' He did not deny the sheriff’s position. Three of his 
warmest friends, including yourself, Mr. Hungerford, were 
present. He knew how painful to us that attitude of sus- 
picion must be. Why did he not explain to us, if not to 
the sheriff, the facts alleged against him ? Why did he hold 
up his head, and walk away, when a word would have sat- 
isfied us? Why is he not here this evening, to give us the 
assurance which we have the right to demand of him?” 

“You don’t know Dick,” said Eugene, impatiently. 

“ I certainly know nothing ill of him ; but I cannot help 
thinking how much better it would have been, if he had 
squarely faced this charge, instead of leaving us to grope 
about among all these painful doubts.” 

“ Dick is a proud, high-spirited fellow. He believes that 
his friend has no right even to' suspect him of anything 
wrong, much less to believe him capable of doing a wilful 
wrong. His view of friendship is too lofty to permit him to 
defend himself from any charge or suspicion. He would 
rather suffer in his honesty, than stoop to the littleness of 
buying his friend with an argument.” 

“ I can hardly comprehend such a position.” 

“ If Dick’s friend suspects him, he is no friend. He be- 
lieves in perfect confidence. If that confidence is lost or 
impaired, it is not for him to restore it, or to heal the breach. 
He will not tolerate a partial friendship.” 

“ It is rather a sentimental idea;” 

“ But it is the true one.” 

“ If my friend places himself in a suspicious position, I 
think he is bound to explain.” 

“ In his estimation, a friend cannot place himself in a sur» 
picious position. Whatever attitude he may assume, hi^^ 


IN THE LIBRARY. 1 77 

friend has no right to doubt his integrity; no. more than 
a wife has to suspect her husband, or a husband his wife.” 

“Are friends always perfect? are husbands and wives? ” 
asked Dr. Bilks, incredulously. 

“ No ; never in action, but always in purpose. They 
may err in judgment constantly, but never in intention^ if 
your friend suspects you, he is not your friend. If your 
wife does not trust in you, you are married, but not mated. 
This is Dick’s view, and it is mine. If I have been mistaken 
in him, he is no longer my friend. I would not injure him, 
but he is no more to me than a neighbor and a brother man. 
No man is my friend in whom I cannot perfectly confide. 
If, with good intentions towards me, he wronged me out 
of all my money, and made me a knave before the world, I 
should still cherish him, even while I lost all respect for his 
judgment and discretion.” 

“ Then you certainly have no fault to find with Mr 
Birch.” 

“ None, if he has only erred in judgment. If he has 
deceived me, if he has endeavored to make Mary the wife 
of Buckstone to prevent me from marrying her, for his own 
ends, he is a knave ! ” said Eugene, emphatically. 

“ But it is not so, Mr. Hungerford. Mr. Birch, I am sure, 
had no selfish motives.” 

“Dick and I proposed to do the very thing which the 
person on the beach was doing with Buckstone.” 

“If it was not Mr. Birch, who was it? Who else could 
it have been ? ” asked the doctor. 

“ I have no idea. There is not another man in the world 
who could by any possibility have had the -slightest interest 
in Mary’s marriage.” 

“ 1 think there is some mistake. We probably misunder 
stood Mr. Birch this morning. He did not ntean to say he 
was not the person. I am entirely satisfied that he will say 
he was the man who accompanied Buckstone to the island 
He is honest and upright, and he will not deny it.” 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


f78 

“Mr. Birch/* said Parkinson, opening the door of the 
library. 

“ Mr. Birch ! ** exclaimed Dr. Bilks. 

Eugene rushed to the entry, grasped the hand of his friend, 
and returned to the library with him. Dick was n.ther cold, 
stiff, and formal in his manner. 

“ I have called up to see you on business, Hungerford,*’ 
said he. 

“ I am glad to see you on any terms,’* replied Eugene, 
warmly. 

“ If Dr. Bilks will excuse you for a few moments, we will 
go into the office. Or perhaps the doctor will join the ladies 
in the drawing-room for half an hour,” added Dick ; and 
there was a certain bitterness in his tones which did not 
escape the keen ear of Dr. Bilks. 

“ Certainly, Mr. Birch ; do not let me interrupt you for a 
moment. I must go to my office,” replied the doctor. 

“ Dick, we have been talking about you and these affairs 
since tea. Dr. Bilks knows all about the business.” 

“ If you desire his presence, it will not disturb me,” added 
Dick, indifferently. “ If I have been the subject of your 
conversation, it may be as well that he remain.” 

“ Dick, don’t be so stiff.” 

“ I am under the shadow just now,” he replied. “ I came 
to deliver the books and papers to you.” 

“ No, no, Dick ! Don’t begin in that strain.” 

“ I came on business only.” 

Dick went to the office, opened the iron safe there, and 
took out the books and papers, which he brought into the 
library. 

“ Here are the day-book and ledger, the latter posted to 
May,” he continued. “ I have kept them with the utmost 
care, and you will find them plain and intelligible. They 
need no explanation. Here is your letter-book ; it contains 
a copy of every business letter I have sent ; while every 
one I have received is on file. Here is your check-book 


IN THE LIBRARY. 1 79 

Here is a record-book, containing a full history of all I have 
done since I managed your affairs.” 

“ Dick, I will hear no more of this ! ” exclaimed Eugene. 
“ Burn the books and papers ; and I am still satisfied with 
what you have done.” 

“•There was a time when you would have been — not 
ihree hours ago,” replied Dick, as he carried the books and 
papers back to the office, restored them to the safe, and, 
locking it, brouglit the key to Eugene. “ Here is the key, 
Ilungerford. You will find everything straight and correct. 
I'o-morrow, when you have had time to examine my per- 
sonal account, I shall trouble you to give me a check for the 
balance of my salary.” 

Dick Birch, though his hand trembled, and his lip quiv- 
ered, buttoned his coat, and took up his hat, which lay on 
the library table. 

“Dick, have you joined the conspiracy against me?” 
demanded Eugene. 

“ No.” 

“You know how all this vexes me; how it wounds and 
crushes me.” 

“ I will leave you, then.” 

He moved towards the door. 

“ Stop, Dick ; you cannot mean to give me the cold 
shoulder now ? ” 

“ Hungerford, I am the sufferer, not you. You have 
rothing to lose ; I, everything. You banish me, and I go.” 

“ What do you mean by that? Sit down, Dick, and let 
us talk over this matter.” 

“ No, Hungerford. I will not talk about it, even. If you 
believe me capable of deceiving you, I have not a word 
to say.” 

“Dick, wil. you answer me one question?” demanded 
Eugene, earnestly. 

“ I will.” 

“ Did you see Buckstone last night?” 


i8o 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ No.'’ 

Eugene was staggered by this reply — a single, plain, un- 
adorned negative. 

How is it possible?” continued he, “ that ” 

•• I will answer no more questions,” interposed Dick, firm- 
ly. “You would not believe me if I did; and my self- 
respect does not permit me to speak when my truthfulness is 
suspected. To the sheriff, to the court, I can do this ; to 
y ou I cannot. If others do not believe me, I will not com- 
plain ; they have no reason to trust me.” 

“ I will believe you — I do believe you,” protested 
Eugene. 

“ You will try to do so, doubtless. Your conversation 
since tea, you told me just now, related to me.” 

“ How could it relate to any other person or thing, after 
tvhat occurred on the beach to-night?” 

“ With the sheriff, you tried to prove that I left the house 
last night, after you retired — so Parkinson tells me,” added 
Dick, bitterly. 

“ On the contrary, we tried to prove that you had not left 
the house.” 

Perhaps the sheriff was trying to prove one thing while 
Eugene tried to prove the opposite. 

“ It would be better to say we were trying to ascertain the 
truth,” added Dr. Bilks. 

Dick looked at the doctor, as though a word from him was 
out of place ; but he said nothing. 

“ Of what else do you suspect me, Hungerford?” 

“ I suspect you of nothing, Dick. It is cruel for you to 
put 3 ourself in such an attitude.” 

“ I am under suspicion : can you deny this, Hungerford?” 

Eugene bit his lip. He could not equivocate. He was 
perplexed with many doubts. It seemed impossible that any 
other person than Dick should have been the man with Buck- 
stone on the beach, and it was just as impossible that his 
friend should utter a deliberate falsehood. The evidence of 


IN THE LIBRARY. 


lOl 

the handkerchief and cigar, and the opirion of Ross King- 
man, were hardly needed, though everything was againsi 
Dick. 

“ You do not answer.” 

“ I cannot deny that I have believed you were the person, 
Dick.” 

“ That is quite enough, Hungerford. My relations with 
you and yours are too delicate, too important, to be trifled 
with for an instant. If you can believe, if 3 '^ou can suspect, 
that I was in treaty with Buckstone, as represented, it follows 
that I was doing so from personal and selfish motives.” 

“ Not at all, Dick ; there may have been a dozen reasons 
why you should have conducted such a negotiation privately. 
I had no doubt of your motives.” 

“You must have doubted them ; but I do not blame you, 
Hungerford. Dr. Bilks had probably told you my views in 
regard to Mary. I was afraid you would many her.” 

“ We have been entirely free in this matter,” said Dr. 
Bilks, in silky, apologetic tones. 

“ I do not complain. I must say one thing more, in con- 
fidence,” added Dick, glancing at the door ; and his face 
flushed as he spoke. “ Though I have never confessed it to 
you, much less to her, I love your sister Julia. I thank God. 
she knows nothing of it ! ” 

“ I think she does, Dick. A man’s looks and actions can- 
not be wholly meaningless. I knew it ; so did others.” 

“So much the worse for me — and for her ! ” exclaimevi 
Dick, sadly and bitterly. “What is patent to us will be so 
to others. All the world will believe that I was hiring 
Buckstone to marry Mary, at the time he was killed — doing 
it in the dark — and for what? To prevent Eugene Hunger- 
ford from marrying her ! I confess this was half my thouglit. 
for 1 loved you too well, Hungerford, to see you throw your- 
self away upon one who, in the eyes of the world, wa.s 
defiled. It was for your sake, as well as for hers, 1 made the 
16 


i 82 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


proposition last night, to which you assented. But what will 
the world say ? ” 

“ Never mind what the world says.” 

“ I must be above suspicion. What follows ? ” 

‘‘ Never mind what follows, Dick. I understand you. 
Your motives were pure and friendly. You meant to serve 
me. You were right; I would have made Mary my wife, 
if the marriage with Buckstone had been illegal.” 

“ It was legal enough, if it could be proved ; but there is 
no certificate, no record, nothing even to prove that any 
ceremony was performed. Though the man who married 
them were an impostor, the legality of the union is not thereby 
affected ; but we cannot prove that either of the parties con- 
sented, or even that a mock ceremony was performed. If 
there was any marriage, it was legal ; but we can prove 
nothing, and Buckstone repudiated it — deserted and aban- 
doned the girl. For these reasons it was necessary that 
Mary should be married again. I thought so, and felt so, 
and, with your knowledge and consent, intended to have her 
married again, but not without.” 

“ It is all clear enough, Dick.” 

“ No, it is not. One thing follows another, until it appears 
that I am laboring to prevent you from carrying out the pro- 
visions of your uncle’s will. Hungerford, I know this has 
never occurred to you.” 

Eugene was silent. Dr. Bilks opened a book. 

“ Such a thought never darkened your mind. Hunger- 
ford,” continued Dick ; “ but others will say, if I should 
ever be seen with your sister again, that I ” — he struggled 
with the thought — “ that I keep you a bachelor in order to 
marry half a million with Julia.” 

“ Why should they think so? ” 

“ Because it is natural that low-minded and selfish men 
should suspect the motives of others. Such a thought never 
occurred to you, Hungerford, but it has made my br3in whirl 


IN THE LIBRARY. 1 83 

with agony, since we parted on the beach. In what a dam- 
nable position am I placed ! ” 

Eugene was still silent, and Dr. Bilks did not seem to 
approve all Dick’s statements and conclusions, foi he occa- 
sionally turned and twisted in his chair. 

“ If Julia thinks kindly of me now, she would spurn me 
as an unclean reptile, if the thought came to her mind.” 

“ Dick, I must be candid : this thought has occurred to 
me, but only to be rejected and cast out as a suggestion of 
the devil.” 

Dr. Bilks winced. 

“ I need not wonder at it, though I did not think it. Now 
you understand me. I must go.” 

“ No', Dick, you shall not go,” protested Eugene. 

“ I did not intend to speak of anything but business when 
1 came. I will not stand in a false position. I will not be 
suspected of marrying for money.” 

“ Now you have stepped upon my ground, Dick,” said 
Eugene, with a smile. “ I would not marry for three mil- 
lions — only for love.” 

“ I know not that Julia would have consented — perhaps 
it was wrong for me to mention her name. It is all past 
now.” 

“ Not at all. Nothing would have pleased me so well as 
such a marriage.” 

“ It cannot be now — at least not till you are married, and 
John Hungerford is born.” 

“ You are cheating yourself, Dick.” 

“ I will not take a step where my motives can be sus- 
pected I am not free from suspicion, even in your partial 
eyes.” 

“ You are.” 

u ]^o — you have suspected me. I have not intended to 
utter a word to remove your suspicion. We part, Hunger- 
ford.” 

“ No, Dick.” 


184 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ It must be so. I do not blame you. I am still youi 
friend.” 

“ This is cruel.” 

“ More cruel to me than to any one else.” 

“ It is unnecessary.” 

“ Can I stand by you in these intimate relations while I 
am accused of base and unworthy practices? No, Hunger- 
ford. If it be the will of God that I shall be purged of this 
stain, we shall meet as friends again; if not, never.’ I will 
speak a word to Julia as I go. Good night, Hungerford.” 

“ I shall see you to-morrow.” 

“ I am summoned as a witness at the examination of Ross 
to-morrow. We may meet then.” 

Dick Birch left the library, and entered the room where 
the ladies were. He briefly stated that circumstances had 
occurred which rendered it necessary for him to absent him- 
self from the house. He shook hands with Mrs. Hunger- 
ford and with Julia, neither of whom dared to ask him any 
questions. He betrayed some emotion as he parted with 
Julia, and she could with difficulty repress the tears that 
struggled in her eyes. Dick went forth from the mansion 
he had reared and beautified, like the wanderers from Eden, 
sad and disturbed. 

“ What do you think now, Dr. Bilks? ” demanded Eugene 
in the library, as the door closed behind the parting friend. 

‘‘ I hardly know what to think,” replied the doctor. 

“ The thought which you suggested to me, you perceive, 
has already occurred to him.” 

“ That was the worst feature in the interview. I was not 
entirely satisfied with his appearance or his explanation.” 

“ You were not? ” said Eugene, with much surprise. 

“ I am afraid he has had the thought about the half mil- 
lion too long in his mind. It was the first thing, evidently, 
that came to him when the little cloud of trouble appeared. 
I was pained to hear him mention his danger, for it proved 
that he had been thinking of it.” 


IN THE LIBRARY. 1 85 

“ Yc'u wrong him. A person of his noble nature is alwayi 
sensitive.” 

If he had no thought of wrong, it would hardly have 
occurred to him when the plan miscarried.” 

“ You have already condemned him.” 

“ No, far from it ; I hope Mr. Birch will be able to make 
it apparent that he had no selfish motives.” 

Dr. Bilks spoke as a man disturbed by doubts and fears, 
but w ho was sincerely anxious that those doubts and fears 
should be removed. He staid till quite a late hour, and sug- 
gested various plans by which Dick could be extricated from 
his unfortunate position ; but Eugene had too much faith in 
simple integrity to believe in any plans. When the doctor 
took his leave, Julia came into the library with her mother. 
She was sad and gloomy, and her looks sufficiently indicated 
her interest in Dick. Eugene told them enough of Vv^hat had 
transpired to explain the rupture with Dick, and assured 
them it would soon be healed. 

“ I know he never had a thought of anything wrong,” 
said Julia. 

“ I do not think he had.” 

“ There is no reason why he should conceal his meeting 
with Mr. Buckstone from you, if he did meet him.” 

“ None that we know of ; but Dick says he was anxious 
to make Mary the legal wife of Buckstone, to prevent me 
from marrying her.” 

“ To prevent you from marrying her ! ” exclaimed Mrs. 
Himgerford. 

“ Of course Eugene never had such a thought,” added 
Julia to her mother. 

“ I had no such thought before I came home,” said 
Eugene, who considered this a good opportunity to inform 
his mother and sister of his purpose. 

“Have you now?” demanded Mrs. Hungerford, full of 
motherly anxiety 

16 * 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


l86 

“ I have, mother ; I intend to make her my wife as soon 
as possible.” 

“ Eugene ! ” 

“ You cannot mean so ! ” ejaculated Julia. 

“ I am entirely in earnest.” 

“ Marry Mary Kingman ! ” exclaimed his mother. 

“ Why not? ” 

“ Why not? Sure enough, why not ! ” said Mrs. Hunger 
ford, more excited, if not more indignant, than she was wont 
to be. 

“ Why not? ” Eugene asked, quietly. 

“ How can you ask such a question? ” 

“ Isn’t Mary a good girl ? ” 

“ Well, she was a good girl.” 

“ Isn’t she now ? ” 

“I do not wish to say an3’thing to hurt your feelings, 
Eugene ; but you know yourself that what has happened 
makes her notorious ; and this terrible murder will not im- 
prove her reputation. She has been town talk for montlis ; 
now she will be the talk of the whole state.” 

“Is that her fault?” 

“ Perhaps not. We don’t even know that she was married 
to the man she called her husband. ^ Why, it’s shameful, 
Eugene ! It would be a disgrace to the whole family. We 
never should get over it.” 

Eugene explained for two hours, but he failed to remove 
their objections. 

“ Promise me, Eugene, that you will not marry her,” 
pleaded Julia. 

“ I cannot.” 

“ I will do anything for her as she is. I will go and see 
her every week. I will go into society with her ; but don’t 
make her your wife.” 

“ I am the indirect cause of her wrongs, Julia ; and I shall 
do what I can to atone for them.” 


I 


IN THE LIBRARY. 1 8 ) 

“ Anything, but do not marry her. I cannot explain why , 
but do not.” 

“Julia, I must marry her, for your sake as well as my 
own and hers.” 

“ For my sake ! ” exclaimed she. “ Why ? ” 

“ I cannot explain why ; but I must.” 

“ Eugene, I hope you will think better of it. This is a 
rash resolve,” interposed his mother. 

“ I will think of it, mother, as I ought ; but I love her, 
and she must be mine.” 

And a new grief was added to the lot of Julia and hei 
motlier. 


i88 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


CHAPTER XV. 


DR. BILKS ON THE STAND. 


' O Dick Birch had been assigned the duty of providing 



X counsel for the defence of Ross Kingman, and he had 
immediately secured the services of Mr. Darling, an eminent 
legal gentleman, residing in Summerville, the county town, 
where the examination was to take place. It had also been 
his purpose to add his own strength to that of the distin- 
guished lawyer’s ; but after the complications which the 
evening of the first day had produced, he was disposed to 
abandon this idea. On his way from Pine Hill to the hotel, 
while he was considering what had transpired in the library, 
he determined to follow his original intention. 

Early on the following morning he went to Summerville, 
and had an interview with Mr. Darling, to whom he fully 
and unreservedly explained his own position. He then went 
to the jail, where, as counsel for the prisoner, he was readily 
admitted. 

“I am glad to see you, Mr. Birch,” said Ross, as he 
entered. “ This is not a pleasant place to live, but I sup- 
pose I must put up with it for some months yet.” 

“ I’m afraid you must, Ross,” replied Dick, with more 
sympathy than a lawyer might be supposed to feel, though 
Dick was more than a lawyer in the present cause. 

“ I shall bear it as well as I can. How is Mary ? ” 

“ She was as well as usual when I heard from her last 
evening. She bears it better than any one could have ex- 
pected.” 


DR. BILKS ON THK STAND. 


189 


That is a great relief to me.” 

“ But, Ross, I came to talk with you about your defence.” 

“ Thank you, sir. I am afraid you have got a hard row 
.0 hoe,” added the prisoner, with a smile. 

“ No, I think not ; though I am rather sorry that you used 
your tongue so freely.” 

“ I like to tell the truth. I had no more idea of denying 
what I had done, than I had of disowning my own name. 
But I want you to understand that I am not guilty of mur- 
der. I don’t feel any more like a murderer than you do, Mr. 
Birch. I have said the same thing to Mary, to Dr. Bilks, 
and to the sheriff.” 

“ But it is a pity you acknowledged it in so many 
words.” 

“ I killed Buckstone, and I meant to do so,” said Ross, 
with dignified firmness. “ I am willing to say that to the 
jury ; and then I want them to say whether I am guilty of 
murder.” 

“ But you musn’t do anything of the sort. You must 
leave the whole matter in the hands of your counsel, and be 
guided by their directions.” 

“ I will do so.” 

The lawyer then proceeded to draw out of the prisoner all 
the facts relating to the murder, and made memoranda of 
them. 

“ Ross, you say there was a man with Buckstone when 
you first saw him on the rocks ? ” continued Dick Birch. 

“ Yes, I do ; of course you know that better than I do,” 
replied Ross, Vvith a smile. 

“ Why should I know it?” 

“ Because you were the person.” 

. “Could you swear that I was the person, Ross?” asked 
Di;k, w'ith as much indifference as he could assume. 

“ I could not. It was too dark to see plainly who it was ; 
and I was busy with another affair. I didn’t care who it 


190 


THr, WAY OF TKE WORLD. 


“Now, Ross, I wish you to think of this matter. You 
cannot swear that I was the person ? ” 

“ No, I cannot. Does it do you any harm to have it 
known that you were the person with Buckstone?’^ 

“ Never mind that, just now, Ross. All we want here is 
the truth. When you first saw the man with Buckstone, did 
you think who it was?” 

“ No, sir ; I did not.” 

“ After you had done the deed, did you think who it was ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Now, Ross, according to your statement, Buckstone and 
this man were talking together, and you listened to them.” 

“ Yes, sir ; I did.” 

“ Then you heard the stranger’s voice.” 

“ Certainly I did.” 

“ Could you tell by the voice whether it was any one you 
had heard speak before ? ” 

“ Well, he didn’t say much. I heard him ask Buckstone 
if he intended to marry Mary. Then, pretty soon, Buck- 
stone told a long story about how it was — that he did 
intend to marry her at first, and then he didn’t. This made 
me so mad I didn’t want to hear any more, and I went off 
after a club. When I came back, they were talking about 
a consideration for marrying my sister, which didn’t make 
me feel any better. I heard what Buckstone said, and I 
didn’t care a straw what the other man talked about ; be- 
sides, he didn’t speak very loud.” 

“ Then you could not tell from his voice who he was?” 

“ No, sir ; I could not. I didn’t mind much about it ; but 
I have thought since, from the way he spoke about the mar- 
riage, that he was a lawyer.” 

“ Did you think, at the time, that he was a lawyer?” 

“ I didn’t think anything about it.” 

“ What did he say that made you think he was a lawyer? ” 

“ He asked Buckstone if he intended to marry Mary, and 
said the intention made all the difference in the world.” 


DR. BILKS ON THE STAND. 

“Just SO ; now, Ross, you did not think, at the time, who 
this stranger was, — are you quite sure on this point?’’ 

“ Of course I am. When I had thrown Buckstone ovei 
the cliff, I began to think of Mary, and I am sure I never 
thought a word of what took place before the deed. I 
didn’t even think that any person was with Buckstone. In 
fact, my mind was all in confusion. I wasn’t used to doing 
such a job, and I felt all the time, before and afterwards, just 
as if I was living in some other world. It didn’t seem as 
though there were any otlier persons in existence but Mary 
and myself.” 

“ I can understand your feelings, Ross. When did it first 
occur to you that I was the person with Buckstone on the 
rocks ? ” 

“ Not till I went over after Dr. Bilks for Mary.” 

“ Did you think of it while you were going after him, or 
while you were returning?” 

“ Not till I saw Dr. Bilks. I told him all about what I 
had done to Buckstone, before he saw Mary, so that he 
might understand what ailed her. I went back with him to 
row him over the channel. Then I told him there was a 
man with Buckstone — I didn’t even think of it till then.” 

“ What did Dr. Bilks say about it?” asked Dick, with an 
eagerness which he could not wholly conceal. 

“ He said the stranger must be Mr. Hungerford.” 

“ Mr. Hungerford ! ” exclaimed the lawyer. 

“Yes, sir; but I told him it was not; Mr. Hungerford 
was a good deal taller than this man.” 

“ What then?” continued Dick, nervously. 

“ Then he asked if it wasn’t Mr. Birch. I told him it 
might be ; but I didn’t believe it was.” 

“ What did he say then?” 

“ He said he was satisfied the man was Mr. Birch. He 
told me you had said something to him about making Buck- 
stone marry Mary. He said you did it from the best ol 


192 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


motives ; and I know you did, and I was very much obliged 
to you.” 

“ This satisfied you that I was the person on the rocks 
with Buckstone ? ” 

‘‘Well, yes; that was enough to satisfy me — wasn’t it?” 
said Ross, not a little puzzled by the troubled expression on 
the lawyer’s face. “ I’m sure I feel very grateful to you foi 
all you have done. Of course, if I had known you were 
the man with Buckstone, I shouldn’t have done what I did. 
You were acting all the time for Mary’s good.” 

“ Did it seem reasonable to you that I should meet Buck- 
stone in the dark, and bribe him to marry your sister?” 
asked Dick, as quietly as he could. 

“ It didn’t seem exactly like you, I own ; but, then, Buck- 
stone is a slippery character, and I didn’t understand your 
plans. I knew you wouldn’t do anything that wasn’t right.” 

“ Where did you find Dr. Bilks, when you went after him 
that night, Ross ? ” 

In his office.” 

“ Was he abed?” 

“ No ; he had just come in from making a visit.” 

“ Do you know where he had been? ” 

“ He told me he had been ov^er beyond the Point, where 
he had a bad case. He said it was rather hard on him to 
have to go out again, for he had hardly slept a wink for 
three nights, or something of that sort.” 

After some further conference, Dick told the prisoner to 
k'eep his courage up, and left him. He had another inter* 
\iew with Mr. Darling, and at ten o’clock in the forenoon, 
all the parties met in the court-house, where the examina- 
tion was to take place. Eugene Hungerford, Dr. Bilks, and 
Mary were there as witnesses. Eugene had attempted to 
see Ross ; but Mr. Darling, at Dick’s suggestion, had re- 
quested the sherift' to exclude all visitors. 

The examination was conducted in the usual form, its 
object being simply to establish the fact that a murder had 


DR. BILKS ON THE STAND. 


193 

been committed, and that there was sufficient evidence to 
presume the guilt of the prisoner. It was not an easy mat 
ter to prove that a murder had been committed, though no 
one doubted the fact. The prosecution expected to establish 
it from the confession of the prisoner to Dr. Bilks, and by 
Richard Birch, who was generally believed to be the person 
who had accompanied the murdered man to The Great 
Bell. 

The body of Buckstone had not been found. It might 
yet appear when the chemical changes attending decompo- 
sition caused it to rise to the surface. >' either had the body 
of Goodwin, the sportsman, who had been drowned on the 
forenoon of the same day, been recovered. There was a 
kind of tradition prevalent at Port Poppleton that the bodies 
of people drowned in Bell River, between the islands and 
the main land, were seldom, if ever, found. There was 
alleged to be something in the tidal current which carried 
the corpses down, and so entangled them upon the jagged 
rocks of The Great Bell, that they never rose to the surface. 
The water was ten fathoms deep, even close up to the cliffi 
Old men at the Port told of this man and that man who had 
been drowned many years before, whose bodies had never 
been found. It was doubtful, therefore, in the light of the 
popular - uperstition, whether Buckstone’s body would ever 
be discovered. 

The examination commenced Ross Kingman was firm, 
dignified, and even noble, in his demeanor. Mary wept and 
trembled when he was brought in ; but Dr. Bilks, who had 
charged himself with the care of her, spoke some consoling 
words, and she became calm. For the first time since her 
departure from Poppleton with Buckstone, Eugene saw her. 
He took her by the hand, and assured her all would be well. 
This was all he said to her in the court-house, though he 
watched her with tender interest all day long. 

Mary was called to the stand first, and, supported by Dr. 
Bilks, she took her place. She had recovered her firmness, 

17 


94 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


and related, in a tone loud enough to be heard by all in the 
court-roo "n, what had occurred between Buckstone and her- 
self before the murder. She was truthful, and did not at- 
tempt to conceal the fact, so damaging, apparently, to her 
brother’s cause, tha: he had acknowledged to her the killing 
of Buckstone. 

“ Your name?” was the first question put to her. 

Mary Kingman,” she replied, to the astonishment of all 
who heard her, 

“ Is that your name ? ” 

“ It is.” 

“ Is it the name by which you have called yourself, and 
by which you were known in New York?” 

“ It is not.” 

“ By what name were you known?” 

“ Mary K. Buckstone.” 

“ Were you the wife of Mr. Buckstone?” 

“ I was not.” 

“ Were you not married to him?” 

“ I do not know that I was, or was not.” 

“ Was a ceremony performed?” 

“ There was ; but Mr. Buckstone assured me I was not 
his wife.” 

“ You intended to marry him at the time the ceremony 
was performed ? ” 

“ I did.” 

“ And he intended tc marry you?” 

“ I suppose he did not, as he repudiated the marriage, 
and declared that I was not his wife.” 

It is important to know whether the man who was mur^ 
dered was your husband or not. The court will instruot 
you that you were legally the wife of Buckstone, if any cere- 
mony was performed, and you believed that it was real ; that 
the fictitious character of the marriage does not affect its 
legality.” 


DOCTOR BILKS ON THE STAND. 1 95 

Was the marriage otherwise legal ? ” asked the magis- 
trate. 

“ I don’t know,” replied Mary. 

Have you any certificate — was there any record made 
of the marriage?” 

“ None, sir.” 

“ Is there any evidence that the marriage ceremon}’^ was 
performed? ” 

“ I know of none.” 

The magistrate did not presume to decide upon the valid- 
ity or invalidity of the marriage ; it was sufficient for the pres- 
ent purpose that the witness did not regard herself as the 
wife of the deceased. 

Mary then gave her testimony, as already indicated. It 
is probable that she was aware how much might depend 
upon her marriage ; that Ross’s very life might hang on this 
question, for it was one thing to kill his sister’s husband, and 
quite another to kill her betrayer and seducer. The issue 
vnth the jury at the trial must lie between these two points. 
She was a well-informed person ; had always read the news- 
papers ; and understood the merits of the case as well as 
any man who would sit upon the jury. Ross had told her 
that, while he acknowledged the fact of the killing, it was 
not murder; the deed was a justifiable one, and no jury 
would convict him. Her testimony, so far as it could be 
without distorting the simple truth, was based upon this 
view. Hence she called herself Mary Kingman, honestly 
believing that she was not legally a wife ; and hence she did 
not attempt to conceal or mitigate the facts contained in her 
brother’s confession to her. 

Dr. Bilks was called. He had been summoned to attend 
Mary Kingman — as she chose to call herself — though he 
was still of the opinion that she was Mrs. Buckstone — a 
legal venture which produced a smile on the almost impassi- 
ble face of the magistrate. Going to and returning from the 
residence of his patient, he had been accompanied by the 


fHE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


196 

prisoner, who had told him what he had done, substantially 
as related by the last witness ; but with the additional fact 
that Buckstone was not alone just before the murder. 

“ Who was the person with him ? ” asked the government 
attorney. 

“ I do not know who he was,” replied the doctor. 

“Did the prisoner tell you who he was, or give you any 
description of him ? ” 

“A meagre description — simply that he wore an over 
coat, and was about my size ; ” and the doctor smiled aa 
he mentioned the last item. 

“ Did he say it was you? 

“ Of course not.” 

“ Well, did he say who he was? 

“ He did not ; that is, he didn’t say in so many words who 
the person was.” 

“ Go on. Dr. Bilks.” 

“ I think I mentioned the names of seve:al persons,” 

“ Whose names did you mention ? ” demanded the attor- 
ney, impatiently. 

“ I mentioned Mr. Hungerford’s first.” 

“ Well?” 

Dr. Bilks was a slow witness. It was evident that he did 
not like to implicate any person in the business of making 
a contract with Buckstone, which must soon be apparent. 

“ The prisoner was positive that Mr. Hungerford was not 
the person,” added the doctor. 

“ What other name did you mention ? ” 

“ I mentioned Mr. Birch’s ; and the doctor gave a very 
elaborate explanation of the reasons which had led him to 
use Dick’s name in this connection, which, of course, includ- 
evl the whole matter of the plan by which Buckstone was to 
be induced to marry Mary in Poppleton. “For the reason 
that Mr. Birch intended to do what the stranger on the 
island appeared to be doing, I concluded the person must 
be Mr. Birch.” 


DOCTOR BILKS ON THE STAND. 


197 


“ What did the person on the island appear to be doing?” 

Dr. Bilks related what Ross had reported tc him about 
the “ intentions ” of Buckstone, and the “ consideration ” 
which the stranger offered. 

It looked like a plain case, and everybody was fully sat- 
isfied that Dick Birch was the mysterious personage who 
had gone to The Great Bell with the murdered man. 

What did the prisoner say when you mentioned the 
name of Mr. Birch?” continued the attorney. 

“ He was satisfied that Mr. Birch was the person ; ” w hich 
was quite true. 

Other evidence of less importance was elicited from Dr. 
Bilks, and when the “direct” was finished, he w’-as turned 
over to the prisoner’s counsel for cross-examination. The 
doctor had certainly behaved like an honest witness. He 
had exhibited a great deal of delicacy and sensitiveness when 
compelled to use ihe names of those who were understood 
to be his friends, and the impression produced by him thus 
far was decidedly favorable. To the surprise of many, and 
of none more than Dr. Bilks himself, Mr. Birch was intrust- 
ed with the task of cross-examining him. Dick was cour- 
teous, and the doctor was steady, so that the questions and 
answers flowed very smoothly for some time, without disclos- 
ing anything new or startling. 

“ You were at home. Dr. Bilks, when the prisoner came 
for you to attend his sister ? ” said Dick. 

“ I was.” 

“ What time was it?” 

“ About two o’clock in the morning, or a little later.” 

“ You were in bed then? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Were you up at that hour in the morning?” 

“ I was.” 

“Do you usually sit up all night?” asked Dick, face- 
tioasiy. 

“ Not usually.” 

17* 


98 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ Did you on this occasion? ” 

“ I did — until about five o’clock.*’ 

Dr. Bilks barely answered the questions proposed to him. 
He was a prudent witness — careful not to prove too much. 

“ Why did you sit up on this particular night, if it is not 
your usual custom ? ” 

“ Professional duties required it,” replied the doctor, crisp- 
ly ; and though the examination seemed to be of no possible 
moment, a close observer might have detected a slight pallor 
in the face of the witness. 

“Ah, you had been out professionally, when the prisoner 
called for you ? ” 

“ I had.” 

“ Where had you been?’^ 

“ Over beyond the Point.” 

“Will you be a little more definite, if you please?” said 
Dick, in the blandest of tones, and with the softest of smiles. 

“ I do not know that I can describe the locality ; I believe 
it is within the corporate limits of Poppleton,” replied Dr. 
Bilks, with a smile apologetic for his ignorance of mere 
roads and boundaries. 

“ Who was sick ? ” 

“ It was an obstetric case.” 

“By whom were you called?” 

“By a man — I don’t know who he was. He was an 
Irishman.” 

“Did he tell you where to go?” 

“ He did.” 

“ How did he describe the locality ? ” 

“ What has all this to do with the murder on the island ? 
ilemanded the attorney for the government. 

Mr. Birch, without precisely stating his object, made it 
appear that the matter was proper — that it was not new 
matter, and that it was relevant. 

“ I do not remember what his description was,” replied 
the doctor, when the question had been repeated. 


DOCTOR BILKS ON THE STAND. 


199 


“ But you went to the place indicated — did you?” 

“ I did.” 

“ What was the name of the lady whom you attended?” 

“ I do not remember ; I have forgotten the name. Possi- 
bly I have it in my book ; ” and he examined his pockets, 
and produced his case-book ; but the name of the sick lady 
did not appear. 

“ Didn’t you put the name down?” 

I supposed I put the name down, but it appears that I 
did not,” replied Dr. Bilks, who had now become quite pale. 

“Are you not usually spoken to some weeks or months in 
advance, in such cases?” 

“ Usually, but not in this instance.” 

“ Did you visit this patient yesterday, or this morning?” 

“ I did not.” 

“ Do you leave them with only one visit, in such cases?” 

“ Never ! ” 

“ Why have you not called upon this patient then?” 

“ I did not consider it as regularly a case of mine. The 
family were evidently in very indigent circumstances ; and 
I concluded, if there was any further need of my attendance, 
I should be called.” 

“ Is this your custom with poor people?” 

“ It is not,” said the doctor, sweating like a day laborer 
under the cross-examination, for it was evident to all in the 
court-room, that there was something wrong, somewhere, 
though what or where it was, they could not tell. 

“Can 3^ou describe the house to which you went. Dr. 
Bilks?” 

“ I could not.” 

“ Did you find it readily when you went that night?” 

“ I did not, very readily.” 

“ Did you inquire ? ” 

“I did not; the man who came for me gave me such 
directions as enabled me to find the house.” 

“ Could you go to it again? ” 


200 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


‘‘ I doubt if I could.’’ 

“ Have you any intention of calling upon this patient 
again ? ” 

“ Not unless I am sent for.” 

How will you collect your bill?” 

“ I shall make no charge ; I never do, wncu people appear 
to be as poor as they were.” 

The doctor looked magnanimcus, and glanced languidly 
at the spectators, as if for their approval of his professional 
generosity. 

“ What time did you start. Dr. Bilks?’' 

“ About eleven, I think.” 

“Where did you spend the early part of the evening?” 

“ I visited a patient at eight o’clock — shall I give you the 
name, and describe the house?” asked the doctor. 

“ It is hardly necessary in this instance,” replied Dick, not 
at all moved by the witty charge. “ You visited a patient at 
eight o’clock : go on, if you please.” 

“ I returned to my office at nine, and read till eleven. 
The book was ‘The Lancet’ — a medical periodical pub- 
lished monthly, in New York, at two dollars a year. The 
article in which I was particularly interested was a ” 

“ Never mind the article, doctor,” interrupited the lawyer. 

“ I beg your pardon ; I thought you v/^anted all the par- 
ticulars.” 

“I do in regard to the patient you visited beyond the 
Point. That is the only case of yours in which the court is 
at all interested. You read ‘ The Lancet ’ ? 

“ I did ; and was about to retire at eleven, when the man 
came for me. I went to the hotel stable for my horse, and 
started immediately.” 

“ What road did you take? ” 

“ The road to the Point.” 

“Describe your route till you reached the house where 
you found your p itient.” 


DOCTOR BILKS OK THE STAND. 


201 


“ I drove dovsni the Point Road, by the salt works.” 

“ Go on, if you please.” 

“ I came to the house, and went in.” 

“ Where was the house?” 

“ I cannot describe its locality,” replied Dr. Bilks, the cold 
sweat standing visibly on his forehead. 

“ Did you go beyond the road leading from the Point 
Road to the Mills?” 

“ I think I did.” 

“ Did you pass any houses before you came to the one 
you wished to find?” 

Possibly I did ; I don’t remember.” 

“ Y ou stopped — did you ? ” 

“ Of course I did.” 

“ What induced you to stop ? ” 

“ The expectation of finding the patient to whom I had 
been called.” 

“ Did you get the right house the first time trying?” 

“ I did.” 

“ That was fortunate ! What was the condition of the 
woman when you saw her?” 

Dr. Bilks described her condition. 

“Was she an old woman or a young one?” 

“ About thirty, I should say.” 

“ At what time was the child born ? ” 

“ About half past one o’clock.” 

“ You were there two hours at least? ” 

“ About two hours.” 

“ Was there a nurse?” 

“ There were a couple of women there.” 

“ Was the child a boy or a girl?” 

“ A girl.” 

“ I pray your honor’s judgment,” said the governmenl 
attorney. “ Mr. Birch evidently intends to treat us to a 
complete view of obstetrical science.” 


202 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ I have done with the witness, may it please your hon- 
or,” interposed Dick. 

Dr. Bilks stepped down from the stand so weak and 
exhausted, that 'his condition excited the attention of the 
audience, especially of Eugene, though none could imagine 
what it all meant. 


DR. BtLKS’s BABY. 


303 


CHAPTER XVI. 

OR. bilks’s baby. 

N o one suspected Dr. Bilks of anything ; and if his 
memory had not been so utterly treacherous respect- 
ing his obstetric patient “ beyond the Point,” his testimony 
would have been faultless. It would have added to his 
credit as a man and as a physician ; for while he spoke the 
whole truth, he was tender of his friends, and he appeared 
to be unbiassed, just, and reasonable. No one had said a 
word against the doctor ; no one had whispered a breath of 
suspicion upon his character. All the evidences against him 
were his bad memory, and his condition as he came down 
from the stand. 

Eugene Hungerford was called next. He confirmed all 
that Dr. Bilks had said about the plan to procure the re- 
marriage of Mary, and explained Ross Kingman’s state of 
mind just before the murder. His testimony simply showed 
that, with others, he did not believe she was the wife of 
Buckstone. 

Dick Birch was called after the deputy sheriff had been 
examined ; and when he took the stand there was a decided 
sensation in the court-room. The audience whispered one 
to another, and there was a general expectation that Dr. 
Bilks’s agency in the affair would be exposed ; that the rea- 
son for the severe cross-examination of the popCi^ar physician 
would be made apparent. The government attorney had 
wondered, as much as others, why the junior counsel for the 
defence had pressed the doctor sc sharply on an apparently 


•THE WAY OF tHE WORLD. 


204 

unimportant point, and he hoped that the mystery would be 
probed. 

“ Mr. Birch, you were intimate with the prisoner, and 
with all the parties connected with the murder?” said the 
prosecuting attorney, when the usual preliminary questions 
had been disposed cf 

I was ; the prisoner, with myself, was in the employ of 
Mr. Hungerford,” replied Dick. 

“ When did you see him last before the murder?” 

“ At the house of Mr. Hungerford, about nine o’clock on 
tlie evening of the murder.” 

How did he appear?” 

“ As usual ; I saw him but a moment, as he was leaving 
the house.” 

“ Did you see him after the murder? ” 

“ Not till I saw him in the jail this morning, as one of his 
counsel.” 

“ You wished to procure the re-marriage of the prisoner’s, 
sister ? ” . 

“ 1 did.” 

“ You had made an arrangement for this purpose?” 

“ With Mr. Hungerford — I had.” 

“ Did 3 ^ou speak to the prisoner about it?” 

“ I did not.” 

“ Why did you wish to procure the re-marriage of the 
murdered man with the prisoner’s sister?” 

“ For two reasons.” 

Dr. Bilks had by this time recovered his self-possession 
and his bodily strength. His seat in the court-room was 
near that of the government attorney, and he was observed 
to be working his chair nearer and nearer to the questioner. 
The doctor was nervous and uneasy. He realized the awk- 
wardness of his situation — to use the mildest term applica- 
ble to it, and those who observed the movements he made 
concluded that he had some suggestions to offer. When the 
attorney for the government r)«it the last question. Dr. Bilks, 


DR. BILKS-S BABY. 


205 


who was leaning over the table with a pen in his hand, 
wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper. After the disagree- 
able impression he had produced by his evident prevarica- 
tion on the stand, it would be quite natural for him to attempt 
to do something to redeem himself. It was supposed that he 
was now engaged in this work. 

The government attorney was in a confused state of mind, 
fnd was now feeling his way. There was something cov- 
( red up — something he could not understand ; and when he 
saw Dr. Bilks working towards him, he expected some hint 
or suggestion which would enable him to find the truth. 

“For two reasons, Mr. Birch. Name them, if you 
please.” 

“ I desired the marriage, first, for the lady’s sake. Fler 
position was at least a doubtful one ; I desired to heal her 
wounds.” 

“ Very praiseworthy, no doubt, Mr. Birch. What was 
the other reason ? ” 

“ I was afraid Mr. Hungerford would marry her himself,” 
replied Dick, desperately, for it required no little effort for 
him to say this in open court. 

“ Then Mr. Hungerford had been attached to this lady 
before her supposed marriage with the deceased?” 

“ He had been.” 

“ Why did you suppose he would marry her, after her 
connection with Buckstone?” 

“ Because his interest in her remains undiminished.” 

“ Did Mr. Hungerford ever mention such an intention in 
his letters to you from Europe, or in conversation?” 

“ He did not.” 

“ Did you think you had good reasons for believing Mr. 
Hungerford would take such a step?” 

“ I felt satisfied that he would, from my knowledge of the 
man, and of his state of feeling, if the lady’s marriage with 
Buckstone was illegal, or if the union could not be legally 
established.” 


18 


2o6 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ Did you tell him so ? ” 

“ I did not.” 

“ You were his confidential friend and adviser — were yoi 
not? ” 

“ I was.” 

“ And you did not speak to him of a matter so impor- 
tant ? ” 

“ I did not ; I intended to do so at a proper time. He 
reached home from Europe only a few hours before the 
murder.” 

“ But you deemed it your duty to prevent the marriage of 
Mr. Hungerford with the prisoner’s sister, if such a marriage 
should prove to be possible ? ” 

“ I did ; I proposed the plan to Mr. Hungerford at once.” 

“ Did you state to him both of your reasons for doing so?” 

“ I did not. I did not deem it advisable to do so at that 
time.” 

“ Mr. Hungerford assented to your p\fin ? ” 

‘‘ He did.” 

“ Would he, in your opinion, have assented, if your fears 
that he would marry the lady himself were well grounded?” 

‘‘ I do not believe the thought of marrying her himself had 
yet occurred to him.” 

“ May it please the court, Mr. Hungerford is not on trial,” 
interposed Mr. Darling, “ and the examination seems to be 
taking a very wide range.” 

“ What do 3^ou expect to prove by this witness, Mr. Lowe?” 
asked the magistrate. 

“ Mr. Birch will presently testify that he was on the island 
with Llr. Buckstone, just before the murder ; and I wish to 
show the purpose for which he was tliere,” replied Mr. Lowe. 

Dick’s face was slightly flushed at this reply ; but he did 
not interrupt the proceedings. 

“ This examination is simply to ascertain whether there is 
sufficient evidence to justify the holding of the prisoner in 


DR. bilks’s baby. 20 *] 

custody on tlie charge of murder,” continued the magistrate. 
“ It seems to me this point has already been reac hed.” 

“ May it please the court, there is no evidence, except the 
partial acknowledgments of the prisoner, which must be 
taken with great caution, that a murder has been committed. 
As this witness was on the island at the timoof the murder, 
it is possible that he may have seen the deed done, or at 
least seen the body of the deceased after it was done. This 
vyitness has thus far been exceedingly reticent. It does not 
appear, though he knew what took place on the island, 
that he gave information of the murder that night, or even 
in the morning. I wish, therefore, to show his object in 
going upon The Great Bell with Buckstone. I wish the 
court to understand what the deceased was doing at the 
time he was killed. It can only be shown by this witness.” 

“ Go on, Mr. Lowe.” 

While the government attorney was making this explana- 
tion, Dr. Bilks^ unnoticed, had placed the paper he had written 
on the table before him, and on the top of his notes, so that 
he could not fail to see it. Mr. Lowe, as he resumed his 
seat, and glanced at his notes to discover where he had left 
off, saw the paper Dr. Bilks had placed there. He read it, 
and appeared to comprehend its meaning without explana- 
tion. 

“ Mr. Birch, you do not believe Mr. Hungencrd had yet 
thought of marrying the prisoner’s sister?” 

“ I do not believe he had — of course I do not know.” 

“ Mr. Birch, what are your relations in the Hungerford 
family?” 

Dick explained them. 

“ Of course you are acquainted with Miss Julia Hunger- 
ford?” 

“ lam;” but Dick blushed, as well he might, when Julia 
was dragged into the court. 

“ What were your relations with her?” 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


2,08 

“ I had no relations with her, except those of ordinal*} 
courtesy and friendship,” answered Dick, indignantly. 

“ Did you correspond with her while she was in Europe?” 
“ I did> 

Mr. Darling objected very earnestly; but Mr. Lowe 
able to show to the satisfaction of the thick-headed magis- 
trate that his course of examination was absolutely essential 
to the prosecution. 

“ Mr. Birch, has Miss Julia Hungerford any fortune?” 

“ She has — twenty thousand dollars left her by her uncle.” 

“ Has she any expectations, real or contingent?” 

“ If her brother, at the age of thirty, has no son^ named 
John, she will come into possession of half a million.” 

Dick knew what was coming, and he braced himself for 
the issue. 

‘‘ Mr. Birch, have you intended, expected, or desired to 
marry Miss Hungerford?” 

“ I object, your honor,” protested Mr. Darling, with as 
much violence as respect for the bullet-headed magistrate 
would permit. 

Again Mr. Lowe explained that this evidence was essen- 
tial to establish’ the fact of, and the provocation for, the mui- 
der ; and again the blockhead on the bench permitted him 
to proceed. He repeated his question. 

“ I neither intended nor expected — I desired.” 

“ Have you not acknowledged that you were attached to 
her?” 

“ In the confidence of friendship, I did,” he replied, 
glancing at Dr. Bill^, who was now having his revenge for 
the severe cross-examination to which he had been subiected, 
and under which he had been so terribly exercised. 

“ Was there anything to prevent your marriage with Miss 
Hungerford — are you aware of any impediment?” 

“ I am not.” 

“ Would her mother or her brother have objected?” 

“ I think not.” 


DR. BILKS'S BABY. 


209 


“ The marriage, then, was possible, and even probable?^* 

“ It was possible.” 

“ Was it not probable?” 

“ I am not capable of judging.” 

“You were attached to the lady, and you are aware of no 
impediment. Did you not, therefore, expect to marry her?” 

“ I hoped to do so — I hardly expected it.” 

“ You intended to marry her — did you not, Mr. Birch ? ” 

“ I could not intend to do what it was not possible for re 
to do alone,” replied Dick, with entire self-possession. 

“ On your own part, then, you intended to marry her, and 
you knew of no impediment? Was this your position?” 

“ It was then, but it is not now? ” 

“ Why not now?” 

“ These events have made it impossible.” 

Even the magistrate, who sat, wood upon wood, on the • 
bench, did not think “ this line ” was competent, and Mr. 
Lowe began to draw nearer to the real question ; but in the 
course of his explanation to the court, he artfully reviewed 
the point he had apparently established — that the witness 
wished to prevent Hungerford’s marriage with the prisoner’s 
sister, in order that the contingent half million of dollars 
might come into her (Julia’s) possession, and thence into his 
own hands, when she became his wife ; thus showing the 
strong motives which Dick had for meeting Buckstone 
privately. 

“ Mr. Birch, were you with the deceased on The Great 
Bell, just before the murder?” 

“ I was not.” 

“You were not?” demanded Mr, Lowe, apparently con 
founded by the answer. 

“ I was not.” 

“ When did you last see Buckstone ? ” 

“ On The Great Bell, nearly a year ago.” 

“ Haven’t you seen him recently?” 

“ I have not.” 

18 ♦ 


210 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ On your oath, do you say you were not with him on 
the night of the murder ? ” 

“On my oath, I do say so.” 

“ Where were you at that time?” 

“ In Mr. Hungerford’s house, at Pine Hill.” 

“ What time did you retire that night?” 

“ At about ten o’clock.” 

“ Did you go out of the house that night?” 

“ As I was going up stairs, I opened the front door, and 
stepped out to see what the weather was.” 

“ Did you put on your hat?” 

“ I did not.” 

“ Did you go out again?” 

“ I did not.” 

The handkerchief and cigar were handed to him, and he 
identified them as his own. 

“ You heard the testimony of the deputy sheriff. These 
articles were found in the boat, which must have been the 
one in which Buckstone and the other person went over to 
the island. You say they are yours.” 

“I do — they are mine.” 

“ How came they in the boat?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Can’t you explain this singular circumstance, Mi. 
Birch?” 

“ I cannot ; perhaps Dr. Bilks, who went down upon the 
Point that night, can.” 

The doctor looked like an injured man, and there was a 
suppressed chuckle all over the court-room at his expense. 

“ I am afraid these articles, in their assumed relations, are 
as unsubstantial as Dr. Bilks’s baby,” said Mr. Darling. 

The doctor had the good sense to appreciate this palpable 
joke, though his smile was rather ghastly and unreal. 

Mr. Lowe pressed the witness to the utmost; but he 
steadily and firmly denied that he had visited the island with 
Buckstone, or that he had seen him since his assumed mar- 


DR. BIJLKS’S BABY. 


211 


riage. He tried him on every tack his ingenuity couLl 
suggest ; but Dick did not vary the breadth of a hair in his 
statements, and the attorney was compelled to give up in 
despair. “ Truth is mighty, and must prevail.” Truth was 
Dick’s god, and his devotion was so sincere, that it impressed 
itself upon all who heard him. It is doubtful if there was a 
single person in the court-room who did not believe every 
word he said. There is that in the truth which conquers 
interest and prejudice ; and he who adheres to it cannot help 
manifesting himself to all who hear him. 

Dick Birch was not on the island that night. He had not 
seen Buckstone for nearly a year. Eugene Hungerford 
scorned himself for the doubts which had grieved his friend ; 
but they were only momentary doubts. This was Eugene’s 
triumph. He rejoiced in it, even while he was annoyed and 
disgusted by the heartless exhibition of his family relations. 

Other witnesses were examined, and Ross Kingman was 
fully committed to await the action of the grand jury. No 
one expected any other result ; indeed, Mr. Darling intended 
to waive the examination, and would have done so, if Dick 
had not protested so strongly against such a course ; for he 
desired the privilege of cross-examining Dr. Bilks. Of 
course he had a theory, but it had not appeared at the 
examination. 

Ross Kingman was borne away to the jail again, and the 
curious crowd followed the officers out of the court-room. 
Eugene remained, anxious to take Dick by the hand, and 
have every dark shadow removed from his path. Dr. Bilks 
took charge of Mary Kingman, and conducted her to his 
chaise. 

“ Dick,” said Eugene, as soon as the lawyer was dis- 
engaged. 

“ Ah, Hungerford ! ” 

“ You have made me ashamed cf myself.” 

“ Don’t mention it. I don’t blame you.” 

“ If I had a doubt, it was only for a moment. I nevei 


212 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


had a real, substantial doubt — certainly not a suspicion — 
of you, Dick.” 

“ But I am more under the shadow than ever before.” 

‘‘Not with me — not with anybody. My dear felloW5 
will you forgi\'e me? ” 

‘- With all my heart — there is nothing to forgive.” 

“ Dick, you are all — you are more to me than ever before. 
I believe every word you have said. Come, go home with 
me, and ” 

“ I cannot do that, Hungerford.” 

“ Why not?” 

“ You heard what was dragged out of me.” 

“ What of that? ” 

“ I have acknowledged the two reasons which induced me 
to propose the plan for Mary’s marriage to Buckstone. One 
was for her sake ; the other still leaves me open to the 
charge of acting from interested motives.” 

“ Dick, you never had a selfish thought in your relations 
with me. I believe in you as I would in my own mother.” 

“ Enough, Hungerford ! ” exclaimed Dick, grasping his 
hand. “ If there has been any breach, it is healed.” 

“ Good ! that sounds like you, old fellow ! ” 

“ I have never wronged you or yours, Hungerford, in word 
or thought.” 

“ I know it,” said Eugene, warmly. 

“ If you had turned me out of your house, I would still 
have served you, and thought kindly of you.” 

“ I have never thought unkindly of you for a moment, 
Dick. We are the same now as ever; so come home with 
me, and we will talk this matter over.” 

“ No, Hungerford, I cannot do that.” 

“ Why not? ” 

“ I should not dare to look Julia in the face after this 
exposure of my thoughts. I cannot go, Hungerford, and 
I wdll not.” 

“ This is obstinacy.” 


DR. bilks’s baby. 


213 


“ I can’t help it. She must not even think that I have 
mercenary motives ; and she can’t help thinking it now. 1 
will not go, Hungerford ; I will not even see her.” 

“ But you punish her more than yourself.” 

“ I think not.” 

“ Why should you punish her, or ) ourself? ” 

“ It cannot be helped. My self-respect will not permit 
me to go into her presence with such an infernal suspicion 
attached to me.” 

This was entirely a matter of feeling with Dick, and he 
could not be moved from his position. Eugene unwillingly 
assented to his view for the present. 

“ Now, where is Mary?” asked Dick. 

“ She has gone back to Poppleton, with Dr. Bilks.” 

“ With Dr. Bilks ! ” exclaimed the lawyer, with some- 
thing like contempt in his words and looks. “ But I must 
leave you now, Hungerford. You can see Ross if you 
like.” 

“ Where are you going? ” 

“ To Poppleton.” 

“ We will go together.” 

“ I do not go direct,” replied Dick. “ I shall return by the 
way of the Point.” 

“ What are you going to do? ” 

“I am going to look for Dr. Bilks’s baby. 1 am deter- 
mined that this baby shall be named after the doctor.” 

“ Dick, what does all this mean?” demanded Eugene. 

“ 1 can’t stop to explain now, Hungerford. I must find 
that baby before Dr. Bilks has time to do so.” 

“ I will go with you.” 

‘‘ Very well.” 

There v^ as a great deal of laughing and sly joking about 
Dr. Bilks’s baby, in the vicinity of the court-house, and the 
expression was destined to become a by-word throughout 
the county, though as yet no one knew what it meant. 
Hungerford had ridden over to Summerville in his buggy. 


214 


THE WAY OF THE W’ORLD. 


and while Dick went for the team, Eugene paid a brief 
visit to Ross in his cell. He spoke words of comfort and 
consolation to him, and promised to provide the best law- 
yer in the state for his defence when the trial took place. 
Ross was cheerful, and had no fears, except in relation to 
Mary; but Eugene told him that Julia had spent the after- 
noon of the previous day with her, and assured him she 
should not want for friends. 

Dick came with the team, and Hungerford took leave of 
the prisoner, promising to see him frequently. The relations 
between our “ Damon and Pythias ” were now fully and 
completely restored. If possible, the sympathy and confi- 
dence of each were increased, though Dick was still firm in 
his purpose not to visit Pine Hill, or see Julia for the 
present. 

“ Now, Dick, what induced you to grind Dr. Bilks so un- 
mercifully when he was on the stand?” asked Hungerford, 
as he drove away from the jail. 

“ Before I answer the question, what was your impression 
of him?” 

“ If it had been any other man, I should have said he was 
lying.” 

“ But, as it was Dr. Bilks, you think he was not l3’^:ng.” 

“ On the contrary, I think he was, though I should not 
care to say so of him in so many words.” 

“ I think that was the general impression,” replied Dick, 
quietly. 

“ In a word, you meant to make it appear that the baby 
was a myth ? ” 

“ Precisely so. He was not called from his office at 
eleven o’clock ; he was not in his office at eleven o’clock ; he 
did not go to any house beyond the Point ; and no baby v/as 
born under his charge that night.” 

“ You are very positive.” 

“ No, I am not ; in fact, I know nothing at all about the 
business, except that which I derived from what the do( tor 


DR. bilks’s baby. 


215 


d*d say, and what he didn’t say. In a word, I know no 
more of where he was, or what he was about, at the time 
mentioned, than you do.” 

“ But you certainly had some reason for driving him to 
the wall as you did ; of twisting him down till the cold 
sweat ran out of him.” 

“ I did have a reason. When I went into your library 
last night, and found you there with Dr. Bilks, I knew, 
before you told me, of what you had been speaking. He 
suggested things to you of which you would never have 
thought without help. I didn’t like the looks of Dr. Bilks 
last night. He seemed to be stepping between you and me. 
He had a hang-dog look that was suspicious.” 

“ I didn’t notice it.” 

“ I saw him wince once or twice, when certain things 
were said. This forenoon I went to see Ross. It was Dr. 
Bilks who gave him the idea that I was the person on the 
island with Buckstone.” 

“ But after what you had said to him, it was not strange 
that he should think so.” 

“ It was strange to me.” 

“ But he mentioned my name to Ross first.” 

“ Perhaps I wrong him ; but I did suspect that all was not 
right. I can hardly tell what it was that first made me sus- 
picious. It was his general appearance, rather than any 
particular thing. The handkerchief and the cigar expanded 
my vision a little. Dr. Bilks smokes my cigars, and I have 
spent hours in his office. I may have dropped my handker- 
chief there. At any rate, my theory was, that the doctor put 
the handkerchief and cigar into the boat.” 

“ Why should he do so ? ” 

“ I don’t know ; I intend to find out. I have been his 
friend. I know of no reason why he should turn this thing 
upon me.” 

But, Dick, who was the person on the island with 
Buckstone? ” 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


tl6 

“ Who was he,” repeated Dick, removing his cigar, and 
glancing at Hungerford. 

“ Yes, who was he? That hasn’t come out yet.” 

“ I don’t think you are as sharp as usual. Who was it? ” 

“ I certainly have no idea.” 

“ It was Dr. Bilks.” 

“ Impossible ! ” 

“ Who else was it? ” 

“ I don’t know ; but what possible motive could Dr. Bilks 
have had in hiring Buckstone to renew his marriage obliga- 
tions?” 

“ I don’t know ; I can’t imagine.” 

This point was discussed, not very satisfactorily, till they 
reached what was called the “ Settlement,” the alleged birth- 
place of Dr. Bilks’s baby. 


THE SETTLEMENT. 


217 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE SETTLEMENT. 

^ *'HE Settlement was a knot of small, poor houses, occu- 
pied by thriftless farmers, luckless fishermen, and 
laborers in the salt works. It was hardly half a mile from 
the sea shore, and the land was very sandy and barren. 

The locality looked like a suitable field for the operations 
of Mr. Eugene Hungerford, when he should commence, in 
earnest, his philanthropic endeavors to improve the material 
condition of the race, and thus reach and stimulate the moral 
and spiritual nature. But with the exception of the labor- 
ers in the salt works, who lived here for convenience, tlie 
people were most unpromising subjects for the missionary 
of human progress. There was work enough in the villages 
if they chose to do it ; but they were mostly idlers and vag- 
abonds, who took their subsistence by stealth from the sea 
and the air ; who followed no steady occupation, and had 
no definite aims, any more than they had any definite prin- 
ciples. If the lobster-pots of a Port fisherman were med- 
dled with ; if an orchard on the turnpike was robbed ; if 
timber, iron, or cordage mysteriously disappeared from the 
sliip yards, or from a vessel, — the mischief was promptly 
cliarged upon some of the vagabonds of the Settlement, 
and, nine times out of ten, justly so charged. 

Eugene Hungerford was not bent upon an expedition 
philanthropic on the present occasion. Nothing sublunary 
agitated him, when, as he turned his horse from the Mills 
Road, and actually penetrated the bounds of the Settle- 

'9 


2lS 


THE WAY OF jTHK WORLD. 


ment, he discovered a chaise approaching them. The vehi- 
cle contained a lady and gentleman, and was drawn by a 
high-spirited black horse, familiar to Dick Birch, if not to 
Hungerford. 

“We are too late ! ” exclaimed Dick, with ever so much 
disgust and dissatisfaction evident in his tones. 

“Why so?’’ 

“ There’s Dr. Bilks. He has got here before me. I didn’t 
tliink he would take Mary with him to visit a patient. I am 
sorry I waited a moment in Vammerville.” 

“What difference can that make? The doctor will point 
out to you the house in which his patient lives,’ laughed 
Eugene. 

“ I dare say he can by this time. I suppose Dr. Bilks has 
declared war upon me now, if he did not before.” 

“ I should not suppose he would love you, after the 
scorching you gave him on the stand.” 

By this time the chaise was'within a few rods of the bug- 
gy, and Engene turned out of the road to let it pass ; but 
Dr. Bilks drew up his horse, and came to a dead halt within 
talking distance of the two gentlemen. 

“ How are you again?” said the doctor, in his usual easy, 
good-natured tones, and apparently not at all disturbed by the 
events which had transpired in the court-room. “ If you 
are not in a hurry, I want to tell you a story,” continued Dr. 
Bilks, chuckling, as though he had something “ rich ” to 
relate ; and, without waiting to learn whether the gentle- 
men were in a hurry or not, he proceeded : “ A rather miser- 
ly ;nan, out in Columbus, Ohio, where I came from, who 
was worth his hundred thousand, at least, was seen, one day, 
searching very diligently on the plank sidewalk, in one of 
the streets. The search was continued so long that the 
attention of the people was attracted, and some one asked 
him what he was looking for. After some hesitation he 
replied that he was looking for a cent he had lost. Of course 
♦Jhc bystanders laughed heartily at the idea of a man wortl’ 


THE SETTLEMENT. 


219 


a hundred thousand dollars searching half an hour or more 
for a single miserable copper. ‘ O ! it isn’t so much the 
cent I want,’ added the man, stung by the laugh, ‘ but I 
wanted to know where the derned thing had gone to.’ ” 

Eugene was polite enough to laugh at the story, but he 
was impatient for the application. 

“ Mr. Birch,” continued the doctor, blandly, “you rather 
had me on the hip this morning. Now, it isn t so much 
the baby that I care for ; but I wanted to know where the 
‘derned’ thing was. In a word, Mr. Birch, I came down 
here to find that baby.” 

“ As you seem to be remarkably good-natured about it, I 
suppose you found it,” replied Dick, rather coldly. 

“ On the contrary, I did not. It seems the poor baby died, 
and the mother has gone away.” 

“Gone away?” exclaimed Dick. “ Why, the child was 
born only night before last ! ” 

“ Bless me, I have known ^ woman to do her washing the 
day after,” laughed the doctor. “ Out in Columbus, Ohio, 
where I came from, I knew an Irish woman who started for 
Cincinnati about two hours afterwards, and carried her baby 
with her. That isn’t the rule with our people, though it 
happens so sometimes.” 

Mary, who sat by the doctoi*’s side, did not relish this con- 
versation, and she turned away her head. 

“ Of course you found the house, doctor,” added Dick. 

“ I did, though I inquired half a dozen times. When I 
found it, the direction of the man who called me came up 
to my mind. The fact is, Mr. Birch, I have so many of 
these directions in my head, that I ought not to be expecte:! 
to remember them. More than this, 1 did ask the parlies 
for the name ; but as the matter wasn’t all right with them, 
my question was evaded by suddenly turning my attention 
to the patient. It is the last house on the left-hand side of 
the road Good morning, gentlemen ;” and the doctor gave 
the reins to his spirited horse, and away he went. 


220 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ We are too late, Hungerford,*’ said Dick, impatiently. 
“ He has fixed the matter to suit his own purposes ; told 
them what to say, and paid them for saying it.” 

“ But if there is anytliing out of the way, we will probe 
it. I will send for one of those detectives, skilled in work- 
ing up affairs of this sort” 

“We will go to the house, and see what we can make 
s*f it,” said Dick. 

Eugene drove to the last house on the left, and both of the 
gentlemen went in. The dwelling, which was one of the 
meanest in the Settlement, was occupied by one Sandy 
McGuire, an Irishman, who had married an American 
woman at least ten years his senior. The character of both 
was “ below par ; ” or, rather, they had nothing that could 
pass for character among decent people. Sandy lived by his 
wits — that is, by stealing and depredating upon exposed 
property. His wife had been a nurse before her ill-assorted 
marriage ; but then and now she drank more liquor than a 
woman or a man should drink, and had fallen into disrepute 
before she became Mrs. McGuire, and had continued in dis- 
repute since. 

Hungerford knew something about the couple, and gave 
what information he possessed to Dick, who observed that 
Dr. Bilks had well chosen his subjects. They went in, and 
found Mr. and Mrs. McGuire on better terms with each other 
than they usually were, according to the speech of people. 

“ Take a sate, gintlemin,” said Sandy, with the utmost 
suavity in his tone and manner. “ The likes of me don’t 
often say sich fine gintlemin in me own house.” 

“We come on business,” added Dick. 

“ What bishness could the likes o’ you have wid the likes 
o’ me? Isn’t Misther Hungerford the richest man in the 
wuiid?” 

“Was there a child born in this house night before last?” 
demanded Dick, impatiently. 

“ Troth there was, thin ! And the poor babby died just 
afther the docther go’n,” replied Sandy, promptly. 


SETTLEMENT. 


221 


“ Was it your child? ” 

“ Ish’t me ! Ton me life it wasn’t thin.” 

“ Whose was it?” 

“ Faix, yoiis may well ax that; but it’s a better man nor 
me that can answer yous.” 

“Who was the mother?” 

“ Sorra one bit o’ me can tell yous, thin. It’s Mistress 
McGuire that can tell yous all about it. I’m a poor man, 
your honor, and whin I gits a shance to make an hon- 
ist pinny, it isn’t the likes o’ me that can turn me bachk 
upon it.” 

“Did you know the mother of the child?” demanded 
Dick, turning to Mrs. McGuire, who, out of respect to her 
liege lord, had been silent thus far. 

“ Well, no, sir, I can’t say I did know her. Accordin to 
my r.otion, she didn’t mean nobody should know her.” 

“ How came she in your house? ” 

“ I’ll tell you all about it if you want me to ; though I 
didn’t think there was go’n to be any fuss about it.” 

“No fuss at all, Mrs. McGuire. If the woman was a 
stranger to you, how came she in your house? ” 

“ I’ll tell you. I used to be a nuss over to Newington, 
and some folks there know I keep house over here. Well, 
about a week ago a man come over here to know if I would 
take in a woman that was goin to be sick, and not say any- 
thing about it, for a pooty good price. Well, we are poor 
folks, and don’t make much, nohow ; so I wan’t much be- 
hindhand makin a bargain. The woman come with an- 
otner woman, and both on ’em staid here till this forenoon. 
The child was born night afore last. We didn’t cal’late to 
have no doctor, but the woman was awful sick, and I sent 
mv hu.sband over to the Port arter Dr. Bilks. He got here 
about half arter ’leven, and staid till nigh on to two o’clock 
in the mornin.” 

“Where is the child now?” 

“ The child died before mornin, and I reckon the mother 
19 * 


222 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


wan’t very sorry ; for she spunked up right off, and get smart 
enough to go off this forenoon.” 

“ The child died — did it? ” 

“ Why, yes ; that’s what I said.” 

“ Was it a boy or a girl?” 

“ A boy,” replied Mrs. McGuire, with some hesitation. 

“You are sure it was a boy?” asked Dick, quietly. 

“ Well, I don’t just know whether it was a boy or not. I 
wan’t round much. I was seein to things in the kitchen.” 

“ You think it was a boy — do you ? ” 

“ I shouldn’t want to say I do think so : it may ’a been a 
gal ; I ain’t sure it wan’t a gal. The fact on’t is, the child 
wan’t much account. Of course I know’d all the time that 
things wan’t right.” 

“ The child died, you say,” continued Dick. 

“Yes; I cal’late the child was dead afore Dr. Bilks got 
back to the Port.” 

“ Very likely. What did you do with the body?” 

“ That’s where the shoe pinches,” said the woman, \vitli 
a sickly smile. 

Dick Birch was of the opinion that the shoe might pinch 
here, if anywhere. 

“ Can’t you tell?” 

“ I can, but I don’t want to.” 

“Why not?” 

“ You’ve come here to git us into trouble.” 

“ I have not, Mrs. McGuire.” 

“ If we say anything you will git us into a scrape.” 

“ Don’t say the firsht woord about it, Mistress McGuiit; ” 
interposed her husband, solemnly. 

“ I don’t see that I can say anything,” added the wife. 

“ Of course the body was buried.” 

“ Av coorse,” replied Sandy, who seemed to be disposed 
to manage the difficult part of the case himself. 

“ And you buried it? ” 

“ Ish’t me? Sorra one woord I’ll say about it.” 


THE SETTLEMENT. 

“How much did you get for this business^” asked Dick, 
finding that the man would be obstinate. 

“ A hundr’d dollars,” replied the woman. 

Have you the money?” 

“ To be sure I have,” said Sandy. 

“ How much did Dr. Bilks give you for felling this 
Ktory?” demanded Dick, sharply. 

“ Dr. Bilks ! ” repeated Mrs. McGuire. “ Not a cent.” 

“ Are you willing to go into court and swear to all you 
have .«itated ? ” 

“ Iveiy word of it ! ” exclaimed Sandy, emphatically ; and, 
whether true or false, there was no doubt he would do so. 

Eugene proposed, in a whisper, that the man should be 
arrested for not reporting the birth and death of the child ; 
but Dick assured him that a householder was not liable 
under six months for the penalty, which v^as only five dol- 
lars. As Dr. Bilks was the real manager of the case, it was 
best to fight the enemy with his own weapons. 

“ McGuire,” said Hungerford, “ I will give you five hun- 
dred dollars if you will show me where you buried the 
child.” 

The man was indignant, and positively refused. Eugene 
then offered him the same sum if he would tell the whole 
truth. He was tempted, shaken, but finally refused, evi- 
dently from fear of consequences. 

“ I will leave the offer open to you, McGuire. Dr. Bilks 
nas probably given you one hundred dollars to tell this story. 
No womar. has bem here, no child has been born ; it is all 
iiumbug.” 

“ D’ yous mane to say I lied to yous?” said McGuire, 
ii’dignantly. 

“ ^hat ic what I mean ; but you were paid for it,” replied 
Eugene. “ We care no':hing about the child or the woman. 
If you wish to make five hundred dollars, you have only to 
te-^. the truth.” 

“ That’s just what I’ve been doin’, your honor.” 


2^4 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


If you change your mind, let me know.” 

It was not probable that he would change his mind till he 
had seen Dr. Bilks, who would give him the five hundred 
dollars rather than have his scheme exposed. McGuire was 
shaken and tempted by the large offer ; and Dick saw it. 

“ McGuire, I will give you a thousand dollars for the 
truth,” continued Eugene, at Dick’s suggestion. 

“ A tcusand dollars ! ” exclaimed the wretch, who hau 
never seen rc much money. 

“Yes; five thousand,” added the millionnaire ^ 
any prompting this time. 

Dick laughed. Dick enjoyed a joke. 

“ O modther o’ Mary ! ” ejaculated the bewildered mis- 
creant. 

“ Five thousand ! ” repeated Eugene, laughing heartily, as 
he glanced at ‘lis friend. 

“Sure, you don’t mane so! You’re makin shport uv a 
poor man.” 

“ I’m in earnest. I will make my offer in writing,” added 
Eugene ; and he took from his pocket a piece of paper on 
which he wrote in pencil, '‘'•I agree to give Sandy McGuire 
five thousand dollars for the whole truth in regard to the 
child alleged to have been born at his house on Monday 
night lasty He dated and signed it. 

“ Let me witness it,” said Dick, laughing. 

It was duly witnessed, though, being written in pencil and 
without a seal, It wr s hardly a legal document, yet the two 
gentlemen had no doubt it would prove to be 3 valuable 
instrument in the hands of its possessor. 

“ I’ll see youi honor to-morrow,” said Sandy. 

“ After you have consulted Dr. Bilks,” laughed Dick. 

“What would I wantwid Dr. Bilks?” replied he, a gleam 
of caution evidentlj/ streaming through his mind. “ I ordy 
want to think what die trudth is.” 

“ It is that for which you can get the most money,’’ said 
Dick, facetiously, as he walked out of the house. 



The Offer in Writing. — Page 224. 














THE SETTLEMENT. 


225 

Eugene was intensely amused as he got into the buggy. 
Five thousand dollars was a large sum of money ; but he 
seemed to be delighted with the idea of parting with it, if he 
had such an idea. 

“ I’m rather sorry you didn’t make it ten thousand,” chuc- 
kled Dick, as he joined Hungerford. 

‘ Well, I will go in and change the paper.” 

“Never mind; it will do just as well as it is. I don’t 
think Dr. Bilks can afford to pay out more than five 
thousand.” 

“ Has he much money?” 

“ He seems to be pretty well supplied with the article. 
He has several thousand dollars in the Poppleton Bank.” 

“ Good ! We can find out at the bank whether he pays 
Sandy his price. I am rather sorry I did not make it ten 
thousand. If Dr. Bilks wants to dance, he ought to pay the 
fiddler,” laughed Eugene. 

“ It may turn out that you will be called upon to pay it 
yourself.” 

“ There is no possibility of such a contingency. His rep- 
utation is now in the hands of Sandy McGuire, and the rascal 
will have no more mercy upon him than upon the eel he 
skins for his dinner.” 

“I hope he will skin him close. If I had reached the Set- 
tlement half an hour before the doctor, I should have headed 
him off.” 

“ Then you fully believe that he bargained with McGuire 
and his wife to tell this story?” 

“ I have no doubt of it. He was the person with Buck- 
stone that night ; and I shall not leave a stone unturned till I 
prove it.” 

‘‘ But, Dick, you have no case. \ou are lame in the fiist 
and most essential point; you cannot prove his motive in 
being there.” 

“ If we prove the fact, the motive may be apparent.” 


126 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD 


“ There is no earthly reason why Dr. Bilks should have 
had anything to do with Buckstone.*^ 

‘‘ There is a reason, though you may not see it.” 

“ Do you see it? ” 

“ I have a theory.” 

“What is it, Dick?” 

“ I say, as 1 have said before, that I know nothing about 
it, any more than yourself. The anxiety of Dr. Bilks to 
make it appear that I was the stranger assured me l^e had a 
motive for doing so. The doctor and myself have been quite 
intimate for the last six months. Of course, my very occu- 
pation, as your agent, led us to talk a great deal about you, 
and I think by this time he knows you very well. Still, I 
never told him anything about your affair with Mary until I 
was in a manner forced to do so, after Ross brought her 
home from New York. Of course, I spoke to him in confi- 
dence, though what I told him was little more than was 
known by everybody in town. I did tell him that you were 
still deeply interested in Mary’s w^elfare, and that I intended 
to do something to heal her wounds. I made him my con- 
fidant in this matter, because, as her physician, he could help 
me in the execution of my plan.” 

“ There was no harm in this, Dick.” 

“ There was not then.” 

“ Nor is there now.” 

“ Let us see. I told Dr. Bilks what I should propose to 
you in regard to Mary, and remarked that you would give 
her ten, twenty, fifty thousand dollars, if it would make her 
happy and contented.” 

“ That was true, Dick ; and if you had said a hundred 
thousand, it would have been just as true,” added Eugene. 
“ If she could not be my wife, I would not weigh money 
against her happiness as the wife of som.ebody else, for T stbl 
believe that I am the author of her misfortunes.” 

“ I told him so.” 

“ What did he say?” 


THE SETTLEMENT. 


7.27 


‘‘ He added that you were a remarkable man. He was 
sure that Buckstone would marry her, for the money, if for 
nothing else. If the twenty thousand dollars which I 
named were in Mary’s hands, he could still have the benefit 
of it.” 

“ But you don’t show any motive, on the part of the 
doctor, for meeting Buckstone.” 

“ It is a mere surmise ; but, as I view it now, Dr. Bilks 
sent for Buckstone himself.” 

“ Why should he do so, if he did?” 

“ I may as well out with it first as last. I think he and 
Buckstone together intended to pluck you,” replied Dick, 
desperately. 

“ But the money for Mary’s benefit was to be placed in 
the hands of Ross, as trustee.” 

“ I did not tell the doctor of that. It was an afterthought 
of mine.” 

“ It may possibly be,” said Eugene, musing. 

Let us look at it. Bilks writes to Buckstone, who comes 
to Poppleton privately, as he is directed to do. Bilks says, 
‘ If you marry Mary, you shall have twenty thousand dollars, 
but half of it shall be mine.’ Bilks makes it appear that it 
is through his agency that the money is to be obtained, and 
that without him it cannot be obtained. I don’t mean to say 
I am satisfied with this theory, Hungerford ; but it is the only 
explanation of his conduct I can offer.” 

“ I think we must search farther for a solution.” 

‘‘ It is evident the doctor intends to prove that I was the 
stranger on the island. I know I was not the person. Who 
put my handkerchief and my cigar into the boat on the 
Point?” demanded Dick. 

“ There is no evidence that it was Dr. Bilks.” 

“ He is the onl}- man who knows anything about my 
cigars. Any one else would have used a common cigar. 1 
tell you he was the man, whether we can prove i. or not.” 


123 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ I am willing to believe it myself ; but I think we had 
better not say much about it.” 

“ Not a word shall be said till the proof comes. In the 
mean time, we will treat him as usual, and watch him 
closely. He is a man of tricks and subterfuges.” 

“ You have already declared war against him.” 

“ He will not so regard it. He hasn’t soul enough to be 
indignant, and he will be your best friend, you may depend.” 

“ I cannot treat such a man as a friend.” 

“ You need only tolerate him. If you or any of the family 
are sick, send for him. I think he is a good doctor.” 

“ I will be as tolerant as possible ; but, after all, it may 
turn out that he is an honest and true man.” 

“ It may, but it will not,” laughed Dick. “ I shall have 
plenty to do in searching into this matter.” 

“ I hope you will get at the truth. Dick, I want to go 
over to the island. I have not seen Mary, except in the 
court-room, since my return. Perhaps she may knov/ what 
the doctor did at the Settlement.” 

“ Don’t mention the matter to her Have you any par- 
ticular business there?” asked Dick. 

“ I have ; very important business.” 

“ Hungerford, I remember what you said last night.” 

“What?” 

“ That you would marry Mary if she were not the legal 
wife of Buckstone.” 

“ I did say so ; I meant so. As the author of her miseries 
iiiid misfortunes, it is my duty, as well as my desire, to give 
her back the good name of which the way of the world 
would deprive her.” 

•• If she was ever a wife, she is a wddow now,” said Dick, 
suggestively. 

“ Speak out, Dick, if you have anything to say.” 

“ Hungerford, do you mean to marry her?” 

“ I do.” 

Dick shook his head. 


THE SETTLEMENT. 


229 


I love her, and to me she is the same she always was. 
I believe she married Buckstone, without true love, in a 
frenzy of despair, when she was driven from her father’s 
house.” 

But think what she is.” 

“You know what she is, Dick. She has violated no law 
of God or man. She has not sinned ; she has been sinned 
against. There is no contamination of impurity about her : 
if there were, I should spurn her.” 

“ Without any sin, with nothing worse, at most, than 
indiscretion, she has become notorious in connection with 
these disgusting events.” 

“ Dick, I would have counted myself happy if I could 
have married her at the sacrifice of every dollar of my for- 
tune, real and prospective, before these events. This was 
not to be. I have spent months of misery under the blow. 
I cannot have her as she was ; I will take her as she is : and 
a thousand times better to me fS she as she is than any other 
could be as she was.” 

“ Hungerford, I have much to say to you about this matter. 
Don’t be rash or hasty.” 

“ I will not.” 

“ I will ask only one favor of you to-day : do not commit 
yourself if you see her.” 

“ Dick, I have already told my motlier and sister what I 
intended to do.” 

“ What did they say ? ” 

“ They are of your opinion.” 

“ Then, for their sake, do not be hasty.” 

“ Dr. Bilks knows my intention.” 

“What did he say?” 

“ He was of my opinion.” 

“ Of course ! ” 

“ Dick, one thing more. When I am married, your posi- 
tion will be changed.” 

“ My position ? ” 

20 


230 


THK WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ You certainly could not be suspected ” 

Bah ! ” exclaimed Dick, turning red. “ I should not be 
suspected if you had a wife. Hungerford, I am unalterably 
opposed to your marriage with Mary, whatever may be the 
result to me. My hopes were exposed to-day in the court- 
room, which shows that what did not occur to me till last 
night filled the thoughts of everybody else. My duty to 
Julia requires me to keep away from her. I shall do so. 
Never mind me, Hungerford. Don’t commit yourself to- 
day.” 

“ I will remember your wish ; but I will not promise.” 

They parted at the pier, and Eugene, sending his horse 
up to the stable by Dick, pulled over to The Great Bell. 


EVIDEKCE WANTED. 


231 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

EVIDENCE WANTED. 

M r. RICHARD BIRCH was not a philosopher in the 
vrordly sense of the term. He was too sensitive and 
high-spirited to be a philosopher. Undoubtedly he would 
have been more comfortable and contented if he had been. 
The suspicions of Eugene Hungerford had annoyed hinri 
almost beyond endurance ; and although common sense 
assured him that his friend was Still a friend, and that there 
was abundant cause for doubt, he was not willing to accept 
the alternative ; he was not willing that any one should 
think it possible for him to have selfish motives, and to be 
acting an underhanded j^art. 

Mr. Birch, therefore, was not satisfied. Though Eugene 
had been convicted of his error, though he had banished 
every suspicion that haunted his mind, Mr. Birch felt that he 
had not yet made the triumphant vindication of the integrity 
of his purpose which his sensitiveness demanded. Not only 
in the partial eyes of his friend, but in those of all the world, 
must he be spotless and unsuspected. If Mr. Richard Birch 
had been a philosopher, he might have been content to be- 
lieve himself that he was without reproach, and leave to 
time and circumstances the work of removing the stain 
which rested upon his good name. 

He drove Eugene’s horse up to the hotel stable, and left 
him there. He was thinking what evidence he could pro- 
cure to establish the two facts that he was not tlie person 
with Buckstone just before the murder, and that Dr. Bilks 


232 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


was the perso.1. These two points were as clear in his own 
mind as though all the solid men of the county had sworn 
to them in open court. It would be very tedious to follow 
Mr. Birch in his patient and laborious search after facts dur- 
ing the remainder of that day, and all of that evening, be- 
cause he spoke with more than a hundred persons, and exam- 
ined every foot of the shore from the Port to the Point. 

If Mr. Richard Birch was not a philosopher, he was some- 
times a logician, and he had a prejudice in favor of beginning 
at the root of a matter. It was evident to his discerning and 
logical mind, that Mr. Buckstone must have come into Pop- 
pleton before he was murdered within its territorial limits ; 
and if he did come into the town, somebody saw him, or 
ought to have seen him there. Thus far no such individual 
had been seen or heard from. Ross Kingman and Mary 
appeared to be the only persons — besides the stranger — 
to whom the murdered man had manifested himself. The 
diligent and interested inquirer into the truth was not willing 
to accept this conclusion, which is another proof that he was 
n':t a philosopher. 

Buckstone had boarded at the Bell River House during 
his former visit to Poppleton. He would be likely to go 
there on the present occasion. The landlord, the clerk, the 
chambermaids, the hall girls, the porter, the hostlers — all 
knew Mr. Buckstone ; but not one of them had seen him 
cn the day of the murder. Those who had the means 
of knowing were very sure he had not entered the hotel. 
It was probable that the murdered man had arrived at the 
Mills by the afternoon train — the same in which the Hun- 
gerford family had come ; but no one had seen him. TKe 
station agent knew him, but he was no wiser than others. 

Mr. Buckstone and the stranger had gone over to The 
Great Bell in a boat — it was not possible to go in any other 
way, for, though some of the enthusiasts, who believed Pop- 
pleton would, at some indefinite future time, rival New York 
in commercial grandeur, when every foot of land would be 


EVIDENCE WANTED. 


^33 


wanted, islands included, thought that a bridge over the 
channel was practicable, the structure had not yet even been 
proposed ; therefore Mr. Buckstone and the stranger must 
have gone over to The Great Bell in a boat. This was a 
logical conclusion, and Mr. Birch believed in it with all his 
might. Then, as it was one of the customs of society tliat 
boats should be owned by somebody, it followed, by a course 
of reasoning equally accurate and logical, that the boat in 
which Buckstone and the stranger had crossed to the island, 
belonged to somebody. 

Fortunately the problem of the ownership of this boat had 
already been solved, and it only remained for Mr. Birch to 
see the owner. He did see him ; but the proprietor of the 
small craft was as lamentably ignorant as the rest ^f the 
world. He kept his boat on the beach about half way 
between the Point and the Port. He had not even missed 
it, for he seldom used it, until the sheriff had spoken to him 
about the matter. The boat contained two fifty-six pound 
weights, used as ballast, one of which was missing ; and the 
painter, a piece of whale line, sixty feet in length, had been 
cut from the stem, and taken away ; but he had not seen Mr. 
Buckstone, and did not even know him by sight. 

“When did you use your boat last?” asked Mr. Birch, 
who had made a memorandum of the missing fifty-six and 
the sixty feet of whale line. 

“ I used it looking after the body of Goodwin the after 
noon before the murder,” replied the owner. 

“ What time did^you go home?” 

“ I hauled up the boat just before dark.” 

“ Did you leave the sail in the boat?” 

“ No ; I always carry that up to the house.” 

“ Where do you keep the oars?” 

“ They aie not worth much ; I always leave them in the 
boat.” 

“ Don’t you suppose the fifty-six was stolen by some loafei 
from the Settlement?” 


234 


THE WAY OF THE WOULD. 


“ I don’t know but it was ; but it seems to me, if aiw one 
stole it, the thief would have taken the other one. He 
might as well be hung for an old sheep as a lamb.” 

Though the sheriff had been informed of the loss of the 
rope and the weight, nothing could be made of the fact, and 
no significance was attached to it. Mr. Birch felt that he 
had gained something, though he knew not what. He left 
the owner of the boat, and examined the shore. There 
might be some person who had been on the beach between 
nine and ten on the night of the murder; some one who 
had been a fishing that day, and returned late ; some one 
whose boat needed attention, or some uneasy individual 
whose wife did not allow him to smoke in the house. 
There was a current rumor in the Port that somebody had 
seen two persons get into a boat, and push off about nine 
o’clock in the evening ; but Mr. Birch did not find this per- 
son till nine o’clock. It was a man who caught fish for the 
hotels, and often came in late at night. His name was 
Jrsiah Plubbard, and the patient inquirer was quite sure this 
man would give him a clew to the m3’sterious stranger. 

“ Hubbard, the^^ say you were on the beach here the 
night of the murder,” began the lawyer. 

Yes, sir; that’s so. I was there, and I told Dr. Bilks 
I was there,” replied the man, who apparently did not mean 
to have it appear that he had attempted to conceal his knowl- 
edge. 

“ Did you, indeed ! ” exclaimed Birch, disgusted with this 
acknowledgment. 

I did ; and I was ready to go on the stand and tell ’em 
all I knowed about it. ’Twan’t much ; but I don’t w’ant to 
keep nothin’ back. I did see them men, and I jest as l.ef 
tell 3'ou on’t as the next man.” 

“ What time was it?” 

“Well, it w^as hard on to nine o’clock, I should say.” 

“ Did you know either of the men? ” 

“ I cal’late I did.” 


EVIDENCE WANTED. 2^5 

“Was cither of them Mr. Buckstone? Did you know 
Mr. Buckstone?” 

“ I cal’late I did ; he went down a fishing with me times 
enough for me to know him.” 

“ Was either of them Mr. Buckstone?” asked Birch, with 
no little eagerness. 

“ I cal’late one on ’em was Mr. Buckstone.” 

“ Could you swear to it?” 

“ I cal’late I shouldn’t want to swear to it, exactly ; but I 
linin' t much more doubt on’t than I had o’ t’other man — Mr. 
Birch. I don’t reckon you’ll want me to swear to’t.” 

“ Why not?” 

“Well, Mr. Birch, you ’n’ I hes allers been good friends. 
When you boarded to the Bell River, you did me one or 
two good turns, and I ain’t the man to forgit a favor. I kind 
o’ kept out of the way, and didn’t say much about what I’d 
seen, ’cause I thought ’twouldn’t do you no good.” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ Well, I cal’late you know what I mean, Mr. Birch,” 
said Hubbard, with an expressive grin. 

“ Who was the man with Buckstone ? ” asked Birch, as a mat- 
ter of form, for he knew what the answer would be, and was 
satisfied that Dr. Bilks had already tampered with tlie man. 

“ I cal’late ’twas you, Mr. Birch.” 

“ You saw me? ” 

The man “ cal’lated ” that he did see him ; that he knew 
him ; was perfectly satisfied, at the time, that Mr. Birch was 
the person with Buckstone. It was not an afterthought ; it 
was not something which Dr. Bilks had put into his head ; 
he “ knowed it all along.” 

“ Hubbard, has Dr. Bilks given you any money?” 

“ Not the first cent ! ” 

“ If he has, I am willing to give 5^ou twice as much 
more.” 

“ Do you think I would lie for money, Mr. Birch?” de- 
manded the fisherman, indignantly. 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


23b 

“ I don't believe you would, Hubbard. I want the truth. 
If you know anything which you haven’t told, you ought ta 
let it out. If any one has paid you to keep back the truth, 
or any part of it ” 

“ No one has paid me a red cent, Mr. Birch,” protested 
Hubbard, who doubtless intended to tell the truth. 

Mr. Richard Birch believed in the truth ; but he was will- 
ing to neutralize the cupidity of base men by paying more 
for the truth than his enemies would for lies. So far he 
was content to “fight the devil with his own weapons” — no 
farther. He knew that testimony thus obtained was worth 
notliing in a court of justice ; but he hoped thereby to obtain 
a clew which would enable him to unravel the tangled skein, 
and obtain reliable evidence. 

He questioned Hubbard wdth the utmost minuteness in 
regard to his interview with Dr. Bilks ; but the fisherman 
still persisted that he knew the stranger was Mr. Birch 
before the doctor said a word to him. It was possible. 
Thej^ were both of the same height. Both wore light spring 
overcoats in the evening and on cool days. Hubbard might 
l.e perfectly honest, but it was more than probable that his 
opinion had been fortified by Dr. Bilks’s carefully-made sug- 
gestions. 

Mr. Birch left the fisherman, almost prepared to believe 
that he was himself the “ stranger ; ” that he had been with 
Buckstone just before the murder. The man w^as very posi- 
tive, but he hoped Mr. Birch would not be injured by the 
truth. He didn’t want any man’s money when he did not 
earn it. If Mr. Birch had got into any “ scrape,” he was 
s.rry for it, and was willing to do anything he could to help 
him out, but he wouldn’t lie on the stand. 

Hubbard was a hard customer, in popular parlance. 
What he believed, he believed with all his might. He would 
do anything in reason to help a friend out of trouble ; but 
his “ nateral” conscience would not let him go on the stand 
and tell what was not true. Dick Birch left him with a 


EVIDENCE WANTED. 


237 


higher respect for his integrity than he had ever entertained 
before, though it was none the less evident that the fishenn in 
was mistaken. He was not willing to swear that the stranger 
was Mr. Birch, but to the best of his knowledge and belief 
such was the fact. 

As the lawyer walked through the principal street of the 
Port, he saw a light in the office of Dr. Bilks. He had done 
all he could do that night on the beach, and round the streets, 
and he was disposed to look into the eye of the doctor, and 
to hear what he had to sa3^ He entered without the pre- 
liminary of ringing or knocking. Dr. Bilks sat in his eas^' 
chair reading, not The Lancet, but the last new novel. He 
jumped out of his chair when Mr. Birch entered, and walked 
towards him with extended hand. 

“ I am glad to see you, Birch,” exclaimed he, heartily. “ I 
was afraid I shouldn’t see you again.” 

“ Why were you afraid of that? ” demanded Dick, coldly 
enough, but as warmly as he could speak to such a man. 

“ Because, for some inexplicable reason, you seem to have 
raised your back against me,” replied the doctor, with an 
injured air. “But I am glad to see you. Have a cigar? 
they are not your favorite brand, but they are the best I 
have.” 

“ I was not aware that I had raised my back against you 
in any manner to which you could take exception,” an- 
swered Dick, as he lighted the cigar. 

“ But what an infernal scorching you gave me in the court 
this morning ! ” exclaimed the doctor, laughing. 

“ That was merely professional. The blue pill you gave 
me a month ago was not pleasant to take, but I didn’t blame 
you.” 

“ But the point on which you drove me to the wall was 
of no importance. I never felt so bad before in my life. I 
had forgotten all about this affair at the Settlement, and to 
save my life, I couldn’t call up a single circumstance, except 
what was strictly professional. You placed me in an 


238 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


awkward position ; and I came very near fainting away 
under it.” 

“ I am soiTy you suffered so much, doctor.” 

“ I did suffer a great deal. When a man means to tell the 
whole truth, and is trying to do it, it is hard to be driven up 
oil points of no consequence.” 

“ I did not regard the point as of no consequence.” 

‘‘ Birch, you and I have been the best of friends since I 
came to Poppleton. Your influence gave me a position at 
once, and I am very grateful to you for all you did. But, 
Birch, you placed me in the ugliest situation I ever was in, 
to-day. I don’t think it was the least matter to you or to the 
court who or what my patient was. I feel aggrieved by 
what you did. You made me appear ridiculous, if not un- 
truthful.” 

Dr. Bilks looked hurt and indignant. He acted like a 
man who had been injured by his best friend. 

“ Doctor, I have only one face. We will not quarrel,” 
said Dick. 

“ We will not ; but I think it is no more that just that you 
should explain your extraordinary conduct. Let us be frar k 
and candid, as between friend and friend.” 

“ I will, with all my heart,” said Birch, who found it 
practically impossible to conceal himself, even from the man 
he regarded as his enemy. 

“ I assure you that no amount of candor would offend me. 
Keep nothing back, Birch ! ” 

“ I shall not. Dr. Bilks ; you have taken a great deal of 
pains to make it appear that I am the person who was with 
Bi ckstone on the night he was murdered.” 

“ I deny it ; I have taken no pains to do so.” 

You mentioned my name to Ross.” 

“ I did.” 

“ And to Hubbard.” 

“ I did not. He was sure you were the person.” 

“ Was he sure without any suggestion from you? ” 


EVIDENCE WANTED. 239 

“He was; his first remark to me was to the effect that 
the person with Buckstone looked like Mr. Birch.” 

“ Did you do anything to lead him away from this conclu- 
sion ? ” 

“ I did not. I will be as candid as I wish you to be. 1 
could not do anything to lead him away from such a conclu- 
sion, Birch. I believe you were the person.” 

“ You do I ” 

“Just as firmly and conscientiously as I believe that Ross 
killed Buckstone.” 

“ Do you wish to believe it? ” 

“ No ; I have tried with all my might to believe you were 
not the person. The evidence is too strong for my mind. 
Ross and Hubbard are confident ; and your reasons for being 
there are sufficiently apparent. There was not a man in 
Poppleton who had any business with Buckstone, except Mr. 
Hungerford and yourself,” said the doctor, earnestly. 

“ But I have sworn that I was not the person.” 

“ That is where you made the greatest mistake of your 
life.” 

“ Then you believe me guilty of perjury,” added Dick, 
calml}". 

“ I have nothing to say about that. My belief is not a 
matter of choice. I believe that Bell River runs down hill ; 
and I believe it because I can’t help it.” 

“ In your eye 1 am perjured ? ” 

“ Don’t worry me with hard names ; doiVt ask me to con- 
demn you. I will not. I cannot see why you should be so 
anxious to conceal your interview with Buckstone.” 

“ Do you think I helped murder him? ” 

“ God forbid ! Of course I do not.” 

“ Can you conceive of any motive I should have for con- 
cealing the fact, if it were a fact, that I was with Buck- 
stone ? ” 

“ I cannot.” 

“ If you believe I was the person now popularly known 


240 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


as the ‘ stranger/ you must think I have some strong motive 
for denying what you believe.” 

“ There must be some motive : it is not apparent yet. 
I believe in the truth ; and I am confident that the truth 
will come out. It will be proved that you were with 
Bi’ckstone, and your motive for denying it will also be 
proved. I am satisfied on this point. Now, Mr. Birch, 1 
claim to be your friend. You will do me the justice to say 
that I have not been forward in bringing out anything to 
your disadvantage.” 

“ Did you suggest to Hungerford that I might be trying to 
get half a million with Julia by preventing his marriage?” 

‘‘ Such a thought occurred to me ; and you virtually owned 
up on the stand this forenoon.” 

“ I think not,” replied Dick, indignantly. 

“ Be that as it may, you will readily perceive that the 
thought which came to my mind was a general opinion in 
the community ; otherwise, it would not have occurred to 
Mr. Lowe.” 

Dick Birch had no suspicion of what had been written on 
the paper passed to Mr. Lowe during the examination. Dr. 
Bilks had reclaimed the paper, and suggested to the attorney 
that his position might be compromised by this honest en- 
deavor on his part to have the whole naked truth presented 
tct the court. Mr. Lowe saw the point, and promised to be 
silent. 

“ Never mind that, doctor,” said Birch. “ What would 
you, as a friend, advise me to do? ” 

“ Tell the truth, by all means.” 

“ Acknowledge that I was on the island, whether I was 
or was not.” 

“ I think there can be no doubt that you were there.” 

“ I still deny the fact ; but grant that I was there, as you 
say you believe.” 

“ I trust you do not believe me capable of any insincerity. 
I do believe you wei*e thei'e.” 


EVIDENCE WANTED. 24I 

“ Never mind that — pass the minor points. You advise 
me to acknowledge that I was with Buckstone.” 

Certainly.” 

“ What then?” 

“You are a lawyer ; you know best. My impression was, 
and still is, that you were on The Great Bell that night for a 
good purpose. As you did not give information to the au- 
thoiities of the murder, as you did not seem to know that a 
murder had been committed, — for I carried the first intelli- 
gence to Pine Hill, — I concluded that, when Buckstone went 
up to see Ross, you pulled over the channel, and went 
home.” 

“ And left Buckstone to be murdered by Mary’s savage 
brother, or at least to remain on the island all night?” said 
Dick, with a sneer. 

“ I confess it did not look reasonable that you would 
do so.” 

“ No man would do so.” 

“ You know best.” 

“ In your opinion, I went home, leaving my companion 
to take care of himself, and not even asking a question about 
him until eleven o’clock the next day ! ” 

“ Of course I know nothing of particulars. I know only 
what is proved.” 

“ It would be more reasonable to suppose that I remained ; 
that I saw the murder ; that I saw Buckstone hurled over 
the cliff' into the sea ; that I knew it all, and then held my 
tongue.” 

“ Ross was your friend — perhaps for his sake you did so ; 
\ ou know best. If you did, it was a mistaken policy. I 
advise vou, if this was the case, to tell the whole truth.” 

“ It might be made to appear that I was an accessory, 
either before or after the fact.” 

“ If you would tell me the whole truth, I could advise you 
better what to do. If your complicity in the affair endan- 
gers you, I should recommend you as a friend, though not 
21 


Z^2 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


as a stern lover of justice, to leave Poppleton — leave the 
country.” 

“ I do not ask for any advice. I only desired to obtain 
your views.” 

“ I am afraid, Mr. Birch, that you are more deeply impli- 
cated than any one yet suspects — you know best. If I can 
do ai y thing to serve you, I will do it with pleasure.” 

“ 1 thank you for your exalted opinion of my character ! ” 

•‘I legard you as a first-rate fellow, and the worst I fear 
is, that 3 "our zeal to serve your friend Hungerford has led 
you into a blunder, if nothing worse.” 

“ Thank you, doctor. Let me say once more that I was 
not the stranger.” 

“ I am sorry you still think it necessary to deny the fact.” 

“ Dr. Bilks,” said Dick Birch, jumping out of his chair, 
and throwing away his cigar, “ you are either the most 
deeply injured man in the world, or you are the most infer- 
nal scoundrel that goes unhung.” 

“ Then I have been more deepl\' injured, in your estima- 
tion, than I supposed I had,” replied the doctor, meekly. 

“ Do you expect to prove that I was the stranger? ” 

I think it will be proved — my general belief in the 
omnipotence of truth leads me to this conclusion.” 

“ Now, doctor, suppose we change the issue : my general 
belief in the omnipotence of truth leads me to the conclusion 
that jyo?i will be proved to be the stranger.” 

Even the slight change which came over the face of Dr. 
Bilks was not unnoticed by Birch. He smiled, looked 
injured, and pronounced the conclusion a most unwarranta- 
ole one. 

“ Will you be as candid with me as I have been with you? 
On what grounds do you charge me? ” 

“ Can you prove to me where you were from nine till two 
on that night? ” 

“ I have already testified on that point.” 

“And your testimony was not worth a brass farthing 


EVIDENCE WANTED. 243 

Do you expect me, or any one, to believe this ridiculous 
stary about the baby ? ** 

“ I certainly do.” 

“ What became of the baby?” 

“ How should I know? ” 

“ Did you report its birth and death to the town clerk? ” 

“ I did — you will find the record of a still-born infant, if 
you look ; though this is no part of my duty by law. I knew 
the child would not live when I left it.” 

‘‘ Could you induce Sandy McGuire to point out the place 
where the child was buried? ” 

“ Undoubtedly I could, and I will do so.” 

“ Do you know? ” 

“ I do net. Sandy McGuire is an ignorant man, and is 
probably afraid that he has done something wrong. I am 
not surprised that he would not tell you.” 

It was midnight when Mr. Birch left the doctor’s oifice, 
satisfied that he had not made a single point. Even in the 
matter of Dr. Bilks’s baby, it certainly looked as though the 
author of the myth would be able to establish the truth of 
all he said. Dick was discouraged. He did not sleep any 
that night ; he lay tossing upon his bed, thinking of his own 
doubtful position before the community. 


24^ 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE ROPE AND THE WEIGHT, 


O say that Mr. Richard Birch was unhappy as he 



A tossed upon his bed that night, would not appropriate- 
ly express his mental condition. He was not unhappy ; he 
was vexed, perplexed, annoyed. He had devoted his first 
spare time since the murder to an investigation of the cir- 
cumstances attending the event. The result of his inquiries 
was only evidence against himself. 

But Dick was not unhappy — not troubled in spirit — only 
perplexed in mind. The Beatitudes have blessings for all 
but the wicked ; and he who suffers most, being still inno- 
cent and pure, has most blessings. In spite of all the ap- 
pearances, real and constructive, which were arrayed against 
him, his spirit did not falter. If what was external and 
beyond himself discouraged him, there was no loss of power 
in his soul. He had faith in the truth, and was satisfied 
that even his good name would be vindicated. 

He tossed upon his bed all night long — not in misery and 
self-reproach, but as he who invents a machine, and is trou- 
bled to make one part harmonize with another. He did 
some tremendous thinking. He was struggling to solve a 
problem ; to read the meagre hieroglyphical facts which the 
murder case presented. Tweqty times, during the five hours 
he lay upon his bed, he drew up before him the naked facts, 
divesting them, as well as he could, of the opinions and prei- 
udices with which they had been clothed. They bore fear 
fully upon himself. He could not invest the myth of Dn 


THE ROPE AND THE WEIGHT. 


245 


Bilks’s baby with even the semblance of reality. The «tory 
of the child and the mother was too flimsy to be beiiev ed. 
If he could ascertain beyond the possibility of a doubt where 
the doctor had spent the hours between nine and two on the 
night of the murder, the case would be almost made out. 
But the people of Poppleton usually slept after nine o’clock, 
and no one had yet been found except Hubbard, who was 
out at the time. 

The rope and the weight did not at first appear to possess 
much significance to him. Buckstone might have used 
them as cable and anchor to moor the boat, and lost them 
overboard. They might have been employed for another 
purpose, which suggested itself to the thinker. When he 
rose in the morning, even before the sun was up, he hastened 
to the house of Mr. Bangs, the deputy sheriff'. The official 
was not up, but anything relating to the murder was enough 
to draw him from his bed, even in the middle of the night. 

“ You are up early, Mr. Birch,” said the deputy sheriff, as 
he joined the visitor in the parlor. 

“ I did not sleep a wink last night,” replied Dick. 

“ I am sorry for that.” 

“ No doubt I shall sleep better when this business assumes 
a more definite shape.” 

“ We were all a good deal surprised, Mr. Birch, when you 
swore that you were not with Buckstone that night.” 

“ I know of no good reason why you should have been 
sur^orised. I can only say now, as I said then, I am not 
the person who was with Buckstone.” 

“ I hope for your sake you were not. If you hadn’t denied 
it, nobody would have thought it was not all right.” 

“ You are entitled to the benefit of your own opinion, Mr. 
Bangs. So far as I appear to be implicated in anything 
which I deny, I am willing to wait till the truth comes out.” 

“ That’s all any of us can do.” 

‘‘ I intend to inquire into this matter till I get at the truthf 
either with or without your assistance.’* 

21 * 


246 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ O, I am ready to do anything which will help uncovei 
the matter.” 

“ That’s my business with you just now. .You found the 
boat in which the two men went over to the island? ” 

“ I did, as everybody knows.” 

“You ascertained to whom the boat belonged.” 

“ Yes ; it was Brown’s boat.” 

“ Of course you were informed that some articles were 
missing from the boat.” 

“ The painter and one fifty-six.” ^ 

“ Have you found these articles? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Have you looked for them ? ” 

“Not particularly. We have looked for everything we 
could find.” 

“ Have you any idea of the use to which the rope and 
the weight were applied ? ” 

“ Not the least in the world.” 

“ Perhaps these articles, if found, might throw some light 
upon the subject.” 

“ Very true. I will search the shore again.” 

“ Of course you will not find them on the shore. If you 
please, I will assist in the search.” 

The deputy sheriff looked as though he wanted to say 
that, if any man knew where to search for the rope and 
weight, Mr. Birch was the person ; but he was polite enough 
not to say that, and it was agreed that the investigation 
should be commenced immediately after breakfast. Dick 
started for the hotel. On the way he passed the house of 
the town clerk. That functionary was at work in his gar- 
den, and the inquirer stopped to satisfy himself in regard to 
the record of the birth and death of Dr. Bilks’s baby. The 
official was communicative, and gave him all the informa- 
tion he required, verifying his statements by taking the early 
visitor into his office, and exhibiting the books. 

Dr. Bilks either had such a case as he represented, at the 


THE ROPE AND THE WEIGHT, 


247 


Settlement, or he had left no stone unturned to establish the 
apparent truth of what he asserted. Though the story was 
too ridiculous to be believed, Dick could not help thinking, 
once in a while, in the course of his investigations, that it was 
possible the doctor might be honest and conscientious. 

Dick’s relations with the cashier of the Poppleton Bank 
were in the highest degree pleasant and intimate. As the 
business man of Eugene Hungerford, Mr. Birch might make 
or unmake the bank. Some of the progressive and enter- 
prising people of the Mills had already agitated the question 
of establishing a bank in the other village. Mr. Hunger- 
ford’s agent had influence enough with his employer to in- 
duce him to favor the new institution ; therefore Mr. Birch 
was treated with profound deference and respect by the 
officials of the Poppleton Bank. Dick called at the house 
of the cashier, after he left that of the town clerk. It was 
mean and low to inquire impertinently into any man’s per- 
sonal and private aflairs, and nothing but the ends of justice 
could permit Dick to ask, or the cashier to answer, any ques- 
tions in relation to Dr. Bilks’s balance at the bank. 

Dick Birch did ask, and the cashier did answer, such ques- 
tions, solely in the interests of justice. The balance was 
between nine and ten thousand dollars. The cashier prom- 
ised to inform Birch if this balance was reduced by the pay- 
ment of any check greater than one thousand dollars. Dick 
left the cashier with the feeling that, if Sandy McGuire sud- 
denly became a rich man, he should be promptly notified of 
the fact. But even now, Dick was not quite satisfied with 
what he had done, and he employed a smart young fel- 
low, in whom he could place confidence, to watch Sandy 
McGuire, and follow him wherever he went. Having done 
all these things, he ate his breakfast and went down to the 
river. The sheriff' was there, with three men whom he had 
cir ployed for the occasion, and in two small boats they 
embarked for The Great Bell. These men were provided 
with grapnels, boat-hooks, eel-spears, and other apparatus, to 


248 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


be used in ascertaining what was upon the bottom of the 
channel in the vicinity of the cliff from which Buckstone 
had been precipitated into the water. 

Though the sheriff was the commanding presence of the 
occasion, Dick Birch furnished all the theories and sugges- 
tions. They were fishing for the rope and the weight, and 
the position and condition in which they might be found 
were expected to add another link in the testimony either 
for or against the identity of the stranger with Birch. Two 
men in one boat with the sheriff dragged a grapnel ; Dick 
and another man, in the other boat, used eel-spears, with 
wliich they expected to fasten upon the rope. It was a 
tedious operation ; and there was nothing which was in the 
slightest degree romantic or interesting about it. All they 
hoped to find was the rope and weight, and there was noth- 
ing even horrible about these articles. 

“I’ve got sunthin,” said Hubbard, the fisherman, who 
occupied the boat with Dick. 

“ So have I,” replied Birch, who had too often been dis- 
appointed during the morning to be very hopeful. 

“ I’ve got hold of sunthin heavy,” continued Hubbard, as 
he tugged away at the eel-spear. 

Dick hauled up a large, heavy piece of kelp at the same 
moment, as he had done fifty times before. It was nearly 
noon, and he was almost discouraged. The channel had 
been dragged, and there was little hope of finding anything. 
They were now at work directly under the cliff from which 
Buckstone had been thrown. 

“ Pull it up,' and see what you have,” said Dick, as he 
disengaged the kelp from his spear. 

“I cal’late I’ve got hold of sunthin heavier than a devil's 
apion this time,” continued Hubbard, as Dick turned his 
attention to the operations of his companion. 

“ Pull away.” 

“ I’m a little afeard it will give way, Mr. Birch. Jest you 


THE ROPE AND THE WEIGHT. 249 

lake that long-handled boat-hook, and kinder stidy it, when 
I pull. I caklate I got hold of sunthin this time.” 

Dick was interested, though not very hopeful, and he thrust 
the boat-hook down till he grappled the object to whicli 
Hubbard had fastened with the spear. 

“ You’ve got it, Mr. Birch. I can feel it ease up when 
)ou pull. Don’t yank it, Mr. Birch; pull kinder slidy. 
That’s it ! Now it gives.” 

“ Pull away ! ” said Dick, beginning to be a little excited 
by the prospect of something, which from the feeling could 
not be kelp. 

Don’t be in a hurry, Mr. Birch ; if we lose it, we might 
fish all day without gittin hold on’t agin. I cal’late we’ve 
got hold of sunthin this time ; and don’t le’s lose it,” said the 
cautious fisherman. “ Stidy, now. There it comes. It’s a 
rope as sure as you’re alive ! ” 

“ Take hold of it with your hands,” added Dick, when 
the rope came in sight. 

“ There’s something tied to the end of it. There it 
comes.” 

“ It’s nothing but a stone.” 

The rope was drawn into the boat. There was a stone 
attached to it, which was taken in. As they pulled on the 
line, it was observed that the boat moved towards the middle 
of the channel, drawn in that direction by some heavier 
weight attached to the other end of the rope. 

“ There ’tis,” said Plubbard, triumphantly. I cal’late 
we’ve got the rope, if that’s what you want.” 

“ But there is something attached to the other end of it,” 
replied Dick, as he pulled on the line. 

“ I cal’late there is ; the fifty-six is hitched to that end. 
Though what in natiir the stone is for, I don’t know,” said 
Hubbard. “Don’t yank it, Mr. Birch; you may twitch it 
off. I cal’late we’d better tell the sheriff, and let him see to 
the rest on’t.” 

Mr. Bangs, already satisfied by the appearances in Dick’s 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


^50 

boat that something had transpired, ordered his men to pull 
in that direction. 

“ We have found the rope, Mr. Bangs,*’ said Dick. 

“ Have you? Are you sure it is the one?*’ 

“ It is a whale line, answering to the description of the 
one that was lost. We have got only one end of it ; the 
other end seems to hang to the bottom.” 

“What’s that stone for?” asked the sheriff, as his boat 
was hauled up alongside of the other. 

“ I don’t know ; probably to sink this end ; but let us pull 
it up, and ascertain what there is at the other end.” 

Two men took hold of the whale line and pulled. The 
weight attached to the other end was very heavy. It was 
more than a fifty-six pound weight, and every one was in- 
tensely excited as fathom after fathom was hauled into the 
boat. 

“ I cal’late we’ve got sunthin’,” said Hubbard, who would 
have choked to death if he could not speak. “ Stidy ! stidy ! 
don’t yank.” 

The object could now be seen, and the men turned pale, 
and looked horrified. Even the stout-hearted sherift' wore 
an expression of painful anxiety upon his face, as though he 
wished some other person might have been called upon to 
perform this disagreeable duty. Birch was sick, and turned 
in disgust from the horrible sight. 

It was horrible — it was a human body I 

It was a headless trunk ! 

“ Stop ! ” said Mr. Bangs. “ We will not haul it into the 
boat. Secure it at the stern, and we will tow it to the 
beach.” 

The men obeyed in silence, and both boats pulled to the 
beach. When the corpse touched upon the sand, it was 
dragged to the shore. The whale line had been passed 
around the middle of the body, and through the ring of the 
fifty-six, evidently so that the weight would keep the corpse 
in a horizontal position on the bottom of the channeL 


KOPK AND THE WEIGHT. 


251 


The head was gone, and the flesh had been gnawed away 
by the fishes. It was a hideous object to look upon, and 
heart and flesh crept with horror as the eyes gazed upon it. 
The sheriff sent two of the men for the coroner, and covering 
the body with a sail from one of the boats, retired from the 
loathsome object, to await the arrival of the proper official. 

“ This appears to alter the whole aspect of the case,” 
said Dick Birch, as they walked away from the corpse. 

“ Yes,” replied Bangs, rather curtly. 

“ Do you know whose body it is? ” 

“ Buckstone’s, of course.” 

“ It may be Goodwin’s.” 

“ In my opinion it is Buckstone’s. The man who was 
with him the night he was killed did all this work.” 

“ Undoubtedly.” 

“ I hope he didn’t cut the head off,” added Bangs, with a 
look of horror and disgust. 

“ I hope not.” 

“What we have found out to-day will make it all the 
worse for the man who was with Buckstone.” 

“ That is plain enough.” 

The sheriff glanced at Dick with a look of mingled pity 
and astonishment. 

“ I am sorry for you, Mr. Birch,” said Bangs, apparently 
uuable to conceal his thoughts any longer. 

“ Why for me?” 

“ Isn’t it clear to you that the person who came down here 
with Buckstone helped to murder him?” 

“ It looks like it. And you mean to add, that you think I 
am the person? ” 

“ I certainly think so.” 

“ Do you believe, if I had known where this body was, 
that I would have asked you to come down here, and bring 
it up from the bottom before my very eyes ? ” 

“ Mr. Birch, I don’t wish to say much about the matter 
just now ; but it looks very bad. It may suit your purpose 


2^2 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


to have this body found now. All I’ve got to say i s, tha\ me 
man who was with Buckstone helped to do the job,” rep led 
Bangs, walking away from him. 

It seemed to Dick Birch, just then, that every thing he did 
to bring out the truth in regard to the murder more deeply 
involved himself. The very finding of the body by his agency 
was construed to his disadvantage. 

The coronor came with a jury, with constables, with doc- 
tors, with witnesses. It required a whole squadron of boats to 
bring over the little army of interested persons, who flocked to 
see the loathsome object which had been dragged from its rest- 
ing-place in the channel. Dr. Bilks, Dr. Hobhed, and Dr. 
White were summoned to view the body, and procure the 
medical testimony in regard to the death of the deceased. 
Only one of all this multitude attracted the attention of Dick 
Birch — Dr. Bilks. He watched him with the most intense 
interest. But the doctor presented nothing very noticeable 
in his looks and manners, except a disposition to be rather 
more jovial than seemed proper on such an occasion. He 
was a little paler than usual, though he smiled whenever he 
spoke, and manifested little or no feeling in the presence of 
the dead ; but he was a doctor, and was familiar with such 
scenes. 

The corpse was viewed by the doctors first. They looked 
for bruises and marks ; but they found none. The head, 
upon wfliich the fatal blow had been struck, was gone. The 
medical gentlemen were perfectly satisfied that the head had 
been removed with a knife, and by a person who had some 
knowledge of anatomy. The clothes were then examined 
by the sheriff and coroner. The deceased wore snuff-colored 
pants, and vest, and a sporting coat, with peculiar but- 
tons. On the little finger of each hand there was a ring, 
one of which was identified by the clerk of the Bell River 
House as belonging to Mr. Buckstone. His watch was 
recognized by two or three witnesses, who had been brought 
over for the purpose. 


THE ROPE AND THE WEIGHT. 


253 


The coat, vest, and cravat were removed, and sent up to 
Mary, who identified them as Mr. Buckstone’s. The linen 
had the initials E. B. upon it. The contents of the pockets 
were various. A porte-monnaie and a pocket-book, both of 
which contained the name of the deceased, established the 
identity^ of Mr. Buckstone. But the most interesting and 
conclusive testimony obtained upon the headless trunk con- 
sisted of a couple of letters. They were soaked with water, 
I'ut their contents were still legible after they had been dried 
in the sun. 

The coroner’s jury, having “ viewed the body ” in due 
form of law, went over to the Town Hall to hear the case, 
and make up tlieir verdict, while the remains were placed 
in the care of an undertaker. When the inquest was 
opened, the doctors were first called upon for their testi- 
mony. What was purely surgical we have already given. 
Dr. Bilks added to his evidence some portions of the 
conversation which had taken place between Dick Birch 
and himself the preceding evening. He had advised Mr. 
Birch to tell the whole truth, which Mr. Birch declined to 
do. Mr. Birch had asked his advice in regard to his future 
course, and he (Dr. Bilks), having, of course, no idea that 
he was implicated in the murder, had advised him to leave 
Poppleton. 

“ Did Mr. Birch deny that he was the person with the 
deceased?” asked the coroner. 

He did, but not with so much energy as formerly,” 
replied the doctor. 

What was your impression, derived from this inter- 
view?” 

“ I am not willing to give my impressions ; they might 
injure Mr. Birch, who has been, and still is, my friend ; but 
I told him I was afraid he was more deeply implicated than 
any one yet suspected.” 

“Ardy)u advised him to leave town — did you?” con 
tinued the coroner. 


254 


THB WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ I did ; but, as I said before, I did not suspect him of 
complicity in the murder.” 

Dick Birch was almost stunned by this evidence, so glar- 
ingly false, his real words so purposely twisted to meet the 
villain's ends. By this time Eugene Hungerford had ar- 
rived. He was summoned to the stand the mornent he 
entered the room. He testified as at the examination. 

“ Mr. Hungerford, you were afraid Ross Kingman wouk 
kill Buckstone if he met him?” 

“ I was ; but I had no suspicion that Buckstone was in 
Poppleton, then.” 

“ Did you mention your fears to Mr. Birch?” 

“ I did.” 

“ What did he say? ” 

“ Nothing of any consequence.” 

The letters were produced. They were directed to “ Mr. 
Eliot Buckstone, New York City,” and one of them bore 
the post-mark of Poppleton ; the other was from Providence. 
The Poppleton letter was opened and read by the coroner. 
The last part of it was as follows : — 

If you will marry the girl again, I will insure you five 
thousand dollars, and possibly you may have double that 
sum. Come and see me, at all events. Leave the train at 
Newington, and come over privately — after dark. Don’t 
fail to come. Yours truly, 

Richard Birch. 

Hungerford was shocked, stunned, overwhelmed. This 
letter had been taken from the pocket of the dead man by 
the slieriff 

“ I did not write that letter, Hungerford,” said Dick, 
calmly, as he was called to the stand. 

“ You are a lawyer, sir; I need not tell you that you are 
not bound to criminate )^ourself,” said the coroner. 

“ You need not,” replied Dick, significantly. 

“ Did you write this letter? ” 


THE ROPE AND THE WEIGHT. 255 

“ I did not.” 

“ It bears your signature.” 

“ Will you let me look at it?” 

It was handed to him. 

“ This is not my writing.” 

“ Did you ever write a letter to Mr. Buckstone?” 

I did.” 

“ More than one ? ” 

“ Only one.” 

“ What was it about? ” 

“ I wrote it at Ross Kingman^s request. I threatened 
Buckstone with a criminal prosecution.” 

“ Did you look at the envelope of this letter?” 

The superscription is in my handwriting. The date in 
the post-mark is not legible ; but I have no doubt this en- 
velope is the one in which I sent the only letter I ever wrote 
to Mr. Buckstone. This is not my writing, though it looks 
something like it, and the paper is different from that I 
always use.” 

Dr. Bilks gave a sudden start, as though he had thought 
of something forgotten or neglected. Hungerford saw him, 
and without signifying his intention to any one, left the hall. 
Dr. Bilks soon followed him. 

The evidence was all heard, and the jury began to con- 
sider their verdict. The body was that of Eliot Buckstone ; 
he had been killed by Ross Kingman. So far they had no 
doubt. One of the six men suggested that the verdict should 
include the name of Richard Birch, who aided and abetted 
in tlie murder. The others would not agree to it ; the evi- 
dence did not justify such a verdict. Birch might be an 
accessory after the fact, for he must have aided in mutilating 
and concealing the body.. Another intimated that Birch had 
gone over to the island, and induced Buckstone to meet Ross 
Kingman, believing that he would murder him. Birch left 
the hall before the verdict was made up, confident thau he 
should be arrested within a few hours. 


256 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD4 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE SHADOW AT PINE HILL. 

E ugene HUNGERFORD went to the office of Dr. 

Bilks when he left the town hall. Even the tremen- 
dous assaults made there upon his faith in Dick Birch had 
not shaken the citadel. The testimony of his friend in 
regard to the letter was suggestive to him, and he determined 
to act without delay. The look and the start of Dr. Bilks 
had not escaped his notice. 

Dr. Bilks’s office was not closed ; for he kept a boy to take 
care of his rooms, run of errands, and receive messages 
during his absence. Eugene walked in, went to the desk, 
and taking a half quire of paper from a shelf, proceeded 
to write a note to Julia ; not that he had anything to say to 
her, but simply for the purpose of obtaining a sheet of the 
paper for future use. While he was thus engaged. Dr. 
Bilks, who had left the town hall a moment later, entered 
the office. 

“ Ah, Mr. Hungerford ! ” exclaimed the doctor. 

“ How do you do, doctor? I have taken the liberty to use 
5 our desk for a moment, in writing a note to my sister.” 

“ Certainly ; but I am afraid you find no proper materials 
for writing.” 

“ O, yes. Here is a whole ream of paper on this shelf,” 
replied Hungerford. 

‘‘ But that is very poor paper. Let me provide you with 
Bome better.” 

Dr. Bilks had half a ream in his hand, which he had just 


THE SHADOW AT PINE HILL. 257 

purchased. He opened the package, and insisted that his 
unwelcome visitor should use some of it. 

“ That is very good paper, doctor ; but I like this better,’' 
replied Eugene, as he folded up his note, which included an 
extra sheet, and hastily thrust it into an envelope. 

“ Do me the favor to use some of this paper. It is a whim 
of mine ; but you will indulge me,” added the doctor, whose 
ill-concealed emotion did not escape the keen glance of the 
visitor. 

“ This paper exactly suits my purpose, doctor. I am very 
much obliged to you ; but it is my whim to send the note just 
as I have written it.” 

Dr. Bilks would probably have said a great deal more if 
Parkinson had not at that moment entered the office, and 
interrupted the conversation. 

“ I’ve been looking for you, Mr. Hungerford,” said the 
man. “ Mrs. Hungerford sent me down to tell you that Mr. 
Lester, from Baltimore, had just arrived.” 

“ Mr. Lester ! ” exclaimed Dr. Bilks, apparently very 
much annoyed at the intelligence. 

‘‘ Do you know Mr. Lester, Dr. Bilks?” asked Eugene. 

“ I do not. I am acquainted with his son, who was in 
college with me, as I told you.” 

“ I will return soon,” said Eugene to the seiwant. 

Dr. Bilks had thrown himself into a chair, and looked like 
a man who was discouraged — like a man who had pur- 
chased half a ream of paper, which could be of no earthly 
service to him. 

Hungerford had accomplished his mission at the doctor’s 
office. As he went out, he saw Sandy McGuire going in. 

“ Do you wish to see me, Sandy?” 

“No, your honor.” 

“ Y ou are not ready to tell the truth yet.” 

“ I am, faix ! Sure, it’s nothin but the blessed truth I been 
tellin your honor from the big’nin.” 

Eugene left him. Sandy had not yet seen the doctor, who, 
22 ♦ 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


258 

ill Hungerford’s opinion, would give one half of all he had 
in the bank for the paper on which the note to Julia had been 
written, and the other half to keep Sandy’s tongue still. 

Dick Birch was just coming out of the town hall, when 
Eugene joined him. 

‘‘Where are those letters, Dick?” demanded Himgerford 

“ The coroner has them.” 

“ I must see him.” 

“ Himgerford, I shall be arrested before night,” said Dick, 
with wonderful calmness. 

“ Arrested ! ” exclaimed Eugene, to whose mind such a 
proceeding had not yet presented itself. 

“ The sheriff, the coroner, and the jury, in my opinion, 
think I had a hand in the murder. Hungerford, the shadow 
darkens over me. I am the man who cut off Buckstone’s 
head after he was killed, and I sank the body in the chan- 
nel.” 

“You!” 

“ They think so.” 

“ Dick, there is my hand ; my heart is in it. You under- 
stand me.” 

“ I do ! ” exclaimed Birch, as he grasped the offered hand. 
“ One such friend is all I ask.” 

Dick was more deeply moved than Hungerford had ever 
observed him to be before. 

The coroner’s jury were still engaged in discussing the 
verdict. Hungerford saw the sheriff', and procured the 
Poppleton letter. The paper was the same as that on 
which Eugene had just written the note to his sister. The 
quality, ruling, and stamp were identical, and there was 
room to believe that the letter to Buckstone had been written 
in Dr. Bilks’s office. Several notes written by Mr. Birch 
were found. They were not written upon this paper. 

In half an hour Dr. Bilks appeared again. He was ap- 
parently desperate. The case was not working right, and 
he had come to look after it. He heard what was said about 


THE SHADOW AT PINE HILL. 


259 


the paper. He laughed at it. Probably Mr. Birch had 
written the letter in his office ; he was often there ; and Mr. 
Birch would not deny that he had frequently written letters 
at his desk. If it did not look exactly like Mr. Birch’s usual 
handwTiting, it was probably because he had used a pen to 
which he was not accustomed. No one could say that the 
stained and hardly legible letter was not written by Mr. 
Bircli. 

“ Mr. Sheriff,” said Dr. Bilks, when he had disposed of 
the letter to his own satisfaction, “ I came here for another 
purpose. I have come to acknowledge that I made a great 
mistake.” 

Everybody looked at the doctor. 

“ If not too late, I should like to add something to my 
testimony — something of the utmost importance.” 

The coroner was informed of the fact, and the case was 
reopened. Dr. Bilks was put upon the stand. 

“ I am obliged to leave fown early in the morning, for 
New York. I shall return in a week. Before I go, I wish 
to set myself right with God and man ; for I have done 
Wrong.” 

People thought that the doctor was very conscientious, 
and wondered what could rest so heavily upon his mind. 

“You wish to correct your testimony?” said the coroner. 

“ Not to correct it — to add to it. Mr. Birch has been my 
best friend in Poppleton.” 

Everybody knew this to be true. 

“ I am very grateful to him for his kindness to me. My 
feeling has been that I would rather die than injure him. 
That was my feeling when I stood on the stand. I have 
not told the whole truth. I confess it with shame ; but it 
was only to save my friend from disagreeable consequences. 
On the night of the murder, I saw Mr. Birch, as I drove 
along the Point Road, with Buckstore. I have kept this 
back before.” 

“ Why did you keep it back? ” 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


:6o 

Because I preferred that Mr. Birch’s connection with 
Buckstone, since he denied it, should be proved by others.” 

But even this strong evidence did not create much sensa- 
tion. It only added another grain of testimony to what 
everybody believed before. 

“ Do you know when Mr. Birch returned from The Great 
Bell?” 

“ 1 do not.” 

Dr. Bilks had conquered. Dick Birch was arrested, and 
hurried off to the Summerville jail, to the great grief and in- 
dignation of Eugene, who could not even bail him out until 
morning. The men of power in Poppleton were stern and 
inflexible, even to superstition, in the discharge of their of- 
ficial duties. But the people, among whom Dick had not 
been very popular, were prepared for this result. He was a 
villain of the first water now, who had been plotting to ob- 
tain half a million of Hungerford’s expected fortune. It was 
a righteous retribution upon him ; and pious men and women 
went to bed that night more than ever convinced that the 
way of the transgressor is hard, and that the evil man shall 
not prosper in his way. 

Eugene Hungerford went home to Pine Hill, and told the 
eminent merchant from Baltimore what had happened to 
his friend. Mr. Lester made a great many sage reflections, 
advised his host carefully to examine all his books and pa- 
pers, assuring him that he would find some startling defalca- 
tion, and severely censured him for placing so much confi- 
dence even in his best friend. 

“All men are human, Mr. Hungerford — all men are hu- 
man,” said the eminent trustee, shaking his head. 

“ But I believe Mr. Birch is an honest man. I know 1 e 
is ! ” protested Eugene. 

“ You delude yourself. You have tempted this Birch as 
no man ever was tempted before. It would have been 
strange if he had not fallen. I am afraid you are to blame. 
I never quite liked Mr, Birch’s manner of doing business. 


THE SHADOW AT PINE HILL. 


261 


When I return to Baltimore, I will send you a precise ac 
count of all the drafts I have forwarded to him and to you. 
In my opinion, you will yet have an action for embezzlement 
against him. As you grow older, you will grow wiser. 
You will learn to trust no man.” 

“ But he is not charged with wronging me.” 

It is all the same, Mr. Hungerford. In my opinion, he 
is guilt} .” 

Eugene was out of patience with the eminent trustee, who 
was a cold-blooded man of business. 

Julia was terribly distressed on account of Dick’s misfor- 
tunes ; and as she listened to Mr. Lester’s comments upon 
him, she was sick at heart. She knew not what to believe, 
or what to disbelieve. Later in the evening, Mr. Lester 
resumed the subject, deeming it his duty to fortify the young 
niillio7inaire against the sin of trusting others, fully believing 
that Eugene w'as in danger of being swindled out of all he 
had and all he would have. He did his duty faithfully, and 
there was not much left of Dick Birch when he had finished 
his wordy harangue. 

Mr. Lester had listened to all the evidence on both sides ; 
and when Eugene ventured to suggest that Dr. Bilks was a 
villain, the eminent trustee warmly defended him. 

The next day, Eugene, contrary to Mr. Lester’s advice, 
and to his great disgust, bailed Dick, who w'as discharged 
from custody. Dr. Bilks had left by the morning train for 
New York. After dinner the eminent merchant went to 
sleep, and Eugene hastened dow^n to the Port to see Dick, 
lie found him at the hotel, rather blue, but not hopeless. 

“ Has anything new come out?” asked Eugene. 

“ Dr. Bilks drew five thousand dollars from the bank last 
right.” 

The bank opened at all hours in Poppleton. 

“ Of course, then, Sandy McGuire is a rich man by thii 
time.” 

“ No doubt of it.” 


262 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ I think we had better go and see Sandy now.” 

They went ; but Sandy McGuire had left town. 

He had hired one of his neighbors to convey himself and 
wife to Newington the evening before. Eugene sent the 
shrewdest man he could find in Poppleton to follow him. 
The messenger returned in a week with no tidings of him. 
When it was too late, Eugene blamed himself for not acting 
more decisively. Dr. Bilks had effectually cut oft' the only 
means by which his presence at Sandy’s house on the night 
of the murder could be proved or disproved. 

“ Hungerford,” said Dick, on their return from the settle- 
ment, “ Dr. Bilks is too great a villain for me. I have been 
weak. I did not strike when I should have struck ; and 
when I struck, I did not strike hard enough.” 

“ Never mind, Dick ; it will all come out right.” 

“ I have never doubted that ; but for the present I stand 
in a very bad situation. Everything I have done thus far 
has made the doctor stronger, and me weaker.” 

“ By no means, Dick. Dr. Bilks will yet hang himself.” 

“ I do not doubt it, Hungerford. I have followed these 
developments far enough to know their bearing. Can you 
tell me of what I am accused?” 

“ Simply of being an accessory after the fact.” 

“ But what is the theory in men’s minds? What motives 
do they attribute to me ? ” 

“ I have heard all that has been urged against you. The 
theory is, that you went with Buckstone to the island to pro- 
cure the re-marriage of Mary and himself. You are a jus- 
tice of the peace. Some say you went to marry tl\e parties 
if Mary consented.” 

That is a new idea to me.’' 

“ It is a mere supposition. While you were there, Buck- 
stone was killed. Some think you were in the confidence 
of Ross, and helped do the deed.” 

Then, of course, if I wanted to kill him, my designs 
upon Julia and her half million fall to the ground.” 


THH SHADOW AT P1N£ HILL. 


263 


“ Only a few take this view ; and these the most ignorant 
and unreflecting. The general opinion is, that you sunk the 
body to conceal the crime of Ross, and without his knowl- 
edge. The justice who issued the warrant for your arrest 
takes this view.” 

“ Including the diabolical idea that I chopped ofl'the head 
of the dead man,” added Birch, with a shudder. 

“ No one pretends to explain that.” 

“ I might have done all the rest, in a good cause, but 1 
couldn’t have done that. It makes me sick to think of it.” 

“ Then don’t think of it.” 

“ What shall be done, Hungerford?” 

“ I hardly know. We can do nothing but wait. If you 
feel uncomfortable here, you can leave town for a week. 
The examination cannot take place till Dr. Bilks returns.” 

“ I will not leave town. I will not shrink. I shall show 
myself every day to the people.” 

“ Then attend to business as usual. Come up to Pine 
Hill ” 

“ No, Hungerford ! ” 

“ Attend to my affairs as usual. I shall build two more 
houses at the Port.” 

Dick would not dodge, even under the pressure to which 
he was subjected. Nothing could be done but wait the prog- 
ress of events ; and he devoted himself to the model houses, 
and other operations of Eugene. 

Dr. Bilks was absent a week. On the day before his 
return, Mr. Lester departed, thus depriving himself of the 
pleasure of meeting the man who loved justice better than 
he loved his friend ; for this was the flourish with wdiich Mr. 
Lester described him. During this week, Eugene had de- 
voted himself principally to his guest, diiving him to all the 
towns within ten miles of Poppleton, showing him the fac- 
tories, the ship yards, and the salt works, and taking him i 1 
the large yacht as far out to sea as Mr. Lester’s susceptible 
stomach would permit. 


264 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


The eminent trustee was pleased with his visit, and de- 
lighted with the Hungerford family. It is true he feared 
that Eugene was not quite so shrewd as he should be to pos- 
sess such immense wealth. He was too sentimental ; too 
willing to believe that human nature was not corrupt and 
wholly irreclaimable ; too much disposed to trust men who 
assumed to be his friends. But the wise and worldly old gen- 
tleman was hopeful, and believed that he would put away 
childish things in due time. He counselled him to shake 
off “ that Birch,” whom the whole town, with one voice, con- 
demned as a worthless, designing fellow. He saw no objec- 
tion now to Eugene’s helping him out of his troubles, and 
even being his friend, until he could decently get rid of him. 

But the one thing which troubled Mr. Lester more than 
all others, more than even his confiding friendship for “ that 
Birch,” was his relation to Mary Kingman. The solid man 
of Baltimore was terribly severe upon this proposed connec- 
tion ; it was so disgraceful that he could not tolerate it. He 
pitied the poor girl ; he would give her money, get her a 
situation ; do anything for her, except make her his wife. 

Eugene heard all this with what patience he Could com- 
mand, and did not weep when the old gentleman, with 
many stately compliments, departed for Baltimore. Mr. 
Lester was an old-fashioned man of the world. He never 
went against the popular current; he never stood by his 
friends after the rest of the world had deserted them ; and he 
never made war upon the people’s prejudices. He was gone 
and Eugene escaped his daily lecture on worldly wisdom. 

All that had been said about Mary by Mr. Lester, by Mrs, 
Hungerford and Julia, and by Dick Birch, had not cured 
Eugene of his love. The vision which had haunted his 
imagination for long years was still present in his mind, and 
not a day, hardly an hour, passed in which he did not think 
of her. He could not deny, even to himself, that she was 
nor what she had been ; but she was not contaminated, she 
was not deprived of any virtue he had prized ; she was still 


TtlE SHADOW AT PtNE MILL. 


265 

an angel. She had bestowed on another the caresses which 
should have been only his ; for this he was grieved — for this 
only. But she was still Mary, still the being he had loved; 
and even with the knowledge that she had been in other 
arms than his own, she was more to him than any other 
could be. 

He had seen her but once since the examination of her 
brother — on the afternoon of that day. He had talked only 
commonplaces then. He said nothing of his love, nothing 
of his intentions. The conversation I'elated mostly to Ross 
and liis trial. Julia had visited her several times ; on the 
last occasion she had taken a violent cold, and on the day 
before Mr. Lester’s departure, she had been confined to her 
room, threatened with a fever. Eugene heard from Mary 
often, therefore ; for during his guest’s stay, he had no oppor- 
tunity to repeat his own visit. 

Julia grew worse. Her mother began to be alarmed about 
her, and sent for Dr. White, a young practitioner, who had 
charge of Dr. Bilks’s patients during his absence. Her 
symptoms did not yield to the usual remedies, and Mrs. Hun- 
gerford was not satisfied with the physician. On the morn- 
ing after Mr. Lester’s departure, the indications were still 
less hopeful. Julia had been delirious during the night, and 
in the morning she was stupid and wandering in her mind. 

“ We must have another physician, Eugene,” said Mrs. 
Hungerford, at breakfast time. “ Dr. White does not under- 
stand the case.” 

“ Certainly, mother; but whom shall we have?” 

“ Could you get Dr. Hobhed?” 

“ I will try.” 

Eugene hastened to the dilapidated mansion of the au- 
thor of the “ Chemical Theory.” He was in his library, 
and the visitor was shown into the apartment. 

Good morning, Dr. Hobhed,” said Eugene. 

The philosopher did not raise his head from his book. 
Eugene spoke again, and touched his shoulder. 

23 


TliE WAY Ot^ THE WOEED. 


266 

“ O, Mr. Hungerford ! ” said he, rather vacantly. “ I am 
glad you have come. Sit down, and I will explain the 
chemical theory to you.” 

“ Excuse me, Mr. Hobhed. My sister is very sick.” 

“ You are aware that certain sea shells have been found 
in coal mines ” 

“ Excuse me, Mr. Hobhed,” interrupted Eugene. “ Will 
you go and see my sister?” 

“ These sea shells prove that the salt water ” 

- “ I cannot stay to listen to your theory now. My sister is 
very sick.” 

“ Salt water is the principle from which all minerals have 
been created.” 

“ Will you go and see my sister?” 

“ All minerals exist in salt water. Gold and silver can be 
extracted from salt water, when ” 

Eugene interrupted him again. It was impossible to gel 
an idea into his head outside of the “ chemical theory,” and 
the visitor departed. There was no other physician at the 
Port, and Eugene returned to Pine Hill. There were two 
doctors at the Mills, and while they were considering which 
of them should be called. Dr. Bilks drove up to the door. 
It was evident that he had just come from the railroad 
station. 

“ Shall we have Dr. Bilks? ”. asked Eugene of his mother. 

“ Certainly ; he is a very skilful physician,” replied Mrs. 
Hungerford, all of whose doubts seemed now to be removed. 

“ I believe he is a villain.” 

“ All we want is his medical skill.” 

“ As you please, mother.” 

Dr. Bilks had already been shown to the library ; and 
when Eugene appeared, he was warmly greeted by the doc- 
tor, as though nothing had occurred to mar the harmony of 
their relations. 

“ I called up to see you for a moment, before I go to the 
office. I ha *e just returned from New York. I am very 


THE SHADOW AT PINE HILL. 267 

sorry not to have met your friend Mr. Lester,” said llie doc 
tor, as volubly as ever. 

“ I am glad you called. Dr. Bilks,” replied Eugene, rathei 
coldly. 

“ I merely came up to ask for our friend Mr. Birch. I 
have done nothing but think of him ever since I left Popple- 
ton. How is he?” 

“ He is as well as usual.” 

“ I suppose he will not eyen look at me, after what has 
fappened ; but I assure you Mr. Birch is still dear to me as 
a friend.” 

“Julia IS very sick. I am glad you have come on her 
account. My mother is not satisfied with Dr. White.” 

“Miss Plungerford sick! I am sorry for that — very 
Sony ; ” and with the utmost tenderness he asked the par- 
ticulars of her illness, which Eugene gave him. 

“ I am afraid it is too late to break up the fever. I will 
see her.” 

Dr. Bilks went to Julia’s chamber. We must do him the 
justice to say that nothing could be more tender, delicate, 
and judicious, than his conduct in the sick room. He exam- 
ined his patient with the nicest care ; but he was compelled 
to inform Mrs. Hungerford that nothing could prevent her 
daughter from having a regular run of typhoid fever. More 
than this, he was magnanimous towards Dr. White ; for, 
whether he knew anything about it or not, he assured her 
that the medical attendant had done all that any physician 
could do. His treatment had been proper and judicious ; 
but Julia’s health had been impaired by her travel in Europe, 
and by the excitement in which she had lived since her 
return. 

Julia was very sick ; and while Dr. Bilks promised well, 
he had some doubts in regard to the result. If Mrs. Hun- 
gerford was not satisfied, he hoped she would call in other 
medical advice. Eugene was not satisfied, and the two doc- 
tors from the Mills came, in the afternoon, to consult with 


268 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


Dr. Bilks. All that had been done was approved, and the 
patient’s condition, though dangerous, was not critical. 

Pine Hill was filled with anxiety. Gloomy forebodings 
hung over the house. Mrs. Hungerford wept over her fair 
daughter, prostrate before her, perhaps never again to rise, 
and mother and brother prayed that God would avert the 
threatened blow. 


THE DEMIGOD OF PINE HILL. 


269 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE DEMIGOD OF PINE HILL. 

D r. bilks spent most of the day and all tl e night at 
Pine Hill. His presence inspired Mrs. Hungerford 
with courage and fortitude. He was regarded as a very 
skilful physician in Poppleton, and the heart distressed by 
doubts and fears clings to such a man, when the loved one 
lies low on the bed of disease and suffering, with a tenacity 
which no other relation can call forth. The physician seems 
to hold the issues of life and death in his hands. His mis- 
take or his neglect is fatal. 

Mrs. Hungerford was a religious woman ; but while she 
trusted in God, she leaned also on the human arm of the 
physician. With God’s blessing, he might save her daugh- 
ter from the yawning tomb. Whether by choice or accident 
he had come to the sick bed of Julia, he was the mother’s 
only earthly hope ; he was the greatest among men in those 
hours of gloom and despondency ; he was the appointed 
minister of God to ward off the shaft of death. Everything 
depended upon him. Ross Kingman, Mary, and Di :k Birch 
were forgotten in the all-absorbing solicitude with w hich the 
fond mother hung over the sick daughter. 

Eugene shared his mother’s feeling. Trifling and insig- 
nificant now appeared the issues which had so deeply moved 
him. If he could not entirely forget that Dr. Bilks was 
tiicky and politic, — if he could not entirely banish from his 
mind the belief, which a few days before he had entertained, 
that the physician was a villain, conspiring against the repu- 

23* 


270 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


tation and happiness of his best friend, — if he could not forget 
these things, he forgave them, and it was painful to think 
of them. In the hands of Dr. Bilks was the precious life 
of Julia, and it seemed like sacrilege to doubt or suspect 
him. 

Dick Birch went to Pine Hill again. It was like a toinl) 
to him. He loved Julia ; and for her sake he was content to 
let the shadows hang over himself. Even he, the wronged 
one, could forget that the doctor was a villain. Though he 
would have preferred that some otlier physician should 
attend the sick one in her perilous condition, he accepted 
the fact as he found it, and confided in Dr. Bilks’s skill and 
devotion, as others did. 

A week wore slowly and painfully away, not in days or 
hours, but in moments ; for each instant was burdened with 
its own doubts and fears. Dr. Bilks went to Pine Hill half 
a dozen times a day, and spent all his nights there. He 
seemed never to tire, never to need the boon of slumber. 
He had a room next to Julia’s, and hardly an hour passed 
without a visit to her bedside. He watched her as a mother 
watches her dying infant. He bent over her, and listened to 
her labored breathing, careful to detect the first symptoms 
of change for better or worse. 

In the library and the drawing-room he never spoke of 
the events attending the murder ; they seemed to be forgot- 
ten by all. As he crept with soft step to the sick room, it 
would have been difficult to believe that he was not an angel 
of mercy to that household ; that a thought of cunning or 
malice ever crossed his mind. Mrs. Hungerford ;poke 
kindly, tenderly of him, and even Eugene and Dick could 
not help calling to mind that nothing had been absolutely 
proved against the doctor. 

Julia’s fever reached its crisis. She was liable to pass 
away at any moment, the doctor said. Those in the house 
hardly dared to breathe, hardly dared to move, lest a rude 
current or a grating sound should sever from the body the 


THE DEMIGOD OF PINE HILL. 


271 


spirit that seemed only to be hesitating in its flight. Dr. 
Bilks sat by the bedside. The all-absorbing solicitude of 
the family was fully shared by him. He gave the medicines 
and restoratives with his own hand. Other patients, farther 
removed from the waiting tomb, were forgotten and neg- 
lected. All his thought and all his time, all his study and 
ull his anxiety, were devoted to the fair patient whose loving 
suLil seemed to be floating between heaven and earth, and 
knowing not whether to flee away to the mansions of the 
blessed, or linger yet longer with the loved ones below. 

Mrs. Hungerford occasionally glanced at the doctor, to 
catch any expression of despondency or hope that might 
gather on his face. Though her frame was worn out with 
watching and care, she could not leave the room. Though 
the doctor had counselled her, as much for the sick one’s 
sake as for her own, to take the rest she needed, it was im- 
possible for her to be absent even for an hour. Eugene was 
in the library, thinking only of Julia. Vain and unsatisfying 
were all worldly hopes ; his treasures were only dross. 
Dick came to Pine Hill often, for he, too, was struggling 
with emotions he could not conceal. He came not as a 
comforter ; he needed comfort himself ; but it was a solace 
to both to think of her and to speak of her. 

While Julia lay in this critical condition, Mary Kingman, 
forgetting her own wrongs and her own woes, visited the 
silent mansion. The sick one had been her friend, as no 
other of her sex had been. She begged the privilege of 
doing what she might at the bed of Julia. She was per- 
mitted to enter the chamber, for the sufferer had often 
spoken of her in her lucid moments, and expressed mucit 
anxiety for her future welfare. A smile on the pale face of 
the sick girl assured Mrs. Hungerford that her visitoik 
presence was agreeable to her ; and from that time Mary 
became a necessity in the sick room. 

On one of these days, when a breath would have wafted 
the spirit of Julia from its earthly tabernacle, was appointed 


272 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


the examination of Richard Birch as accessory, after the 
fact, to the murder of Buckstone ; but there was influence 
enough to postpone it, and hardly a thought was bestowed 
upon the matter. 

A few more days dragged heavily away, and Dr. Bilks 
began to speak hesitatingly, and with many qualifications, 
words of meagre hope ; then more decidedly, but still doubt- 
fully. Hardly sleeping an hour at a time, he continued 
his untiring vigil at the couch of the fair patient. Still 
mother and brother, friends and servants, watched his coun- 
tenance, burdened with anxiety, for tidings of weal or woe. 
Sunday came, and Julia had lain a fortnight upon her bed, 
which had for many days seemed like the triumphal car 
upon which the Christian conqueror was to be borne to the 
courts above to receive her crown immortal. On this day 
passed away the shadow which had enveloped Pine Hill. 
Dr. Bilks, no longer doubtful and hesitating, declared that 
the crisis had been safely passed. Julia was out of dan- 
ger, and there was nothing to dread but the possible relapse 
incident to the malady. Tlie pale and haggard ones, who 
day and night had crept like spectres through the lofty 
rooms of the Pine Hill mansion, smiled upon each other ; 
and from those hearts which now began to beat again went 
up a psean of thanksgiving and praise to Him who had mer- 
cifully rolled away the shadow. 

Mrs. Hungerford slept now, and Mary Kingman kept 
vigil at the bedside of the sufferer. The human sympathy 
which the sad condition of poor Mary had kindled in the 
heart of the invalid was even more than “ twice blessed,” for 
the kindness and devotion of the nurse were too real to be 
undervalued. No selfish thought, no calculating policy, 
entered into the mind of Mary. Julia had come to her when 
all others forsook her ; this was her reflection ; and she would 
gladly wear out her feeble frame in the service of such 
a friend. She did not see Eugene at all, except as she met 
him occasionally in the halls while in the discharge of hei 


THE DEMIGOD OF PINE HILL. 273 

duties ; aiul then she lingered only long enough to speak a 
word of Julia. 

The invalid continued to improve. She needed nothing 
now but patient, skilful nursing. Dr. Bilks still devoted his 
most earnest attention to the patient, though he spent less 
time in her presence. He not only prescribed costly wines, 
rare grapes, and other delicacies, but he procured them him- 
self. The sweetest flowers that grew in the greenhouses 
near the great cities were every day placed in her chamber 
by his hand. There was nothing which ingenious thought 
could devise that was not done by him to promote her con- 
valescence. And all this time Dick Birch could not even 
enter the room of the invalid. As she grew better his visits 
at Pine Hill became less frequent, and when she was able to 
leave her room they ceased altogether. 

The days of the sunny summer had come. Dr. Bilks 
directed that his patient should ride out, and he went with 
her every day. He still spoke of the dreaded relapse, and 
watched the eflect of the gentle exercise he ordered. But 
no relapse came ; and that it did not come was ascribed to 
the skill and watchful care of the devoted physician. There 
was none in the house who did not believe that Dr. Bilks 
was the savior of Julia Hungerford ; that if he had been 
less skilful or less devoted, she could not then have been 
numbered among the living. Dr. Bilks therefore was not 
only an honored guest at Pine Hill, but he was regarded 
with a kind of reverence akin to worship. 

Julia herself shared the common feeling. What was out- 
side of her own knowledge and experience was faithfully 
and enthusiastically delineated by her mother, to whom there 
was no person in existence, out of her own family, like Dr. 
Bilks. It would have been impossible for Julia, thoughtful, 
kind-hearted as she was, to be unmoved by the attentions 
bestowed upon her by the physician. He seemed to live for 
her recovery ; to be studying all the time how he could cast 
a ray of sunlight across her path. In her chamber there 


Z74 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


was always something to remind her of his de\"otion — a rare 
bouquet, a cluster of grapes, a toy, a game, the newest book, 
the finest engraving. And all these things were only the 
machinery of the physician’s art ; only devices to cheat Death 
of his intended victim ; only offerings on the altar of Hygeia ; 
so they were interpreted by those who blessed the doctor for 
tlie boon of that precious life. 

Julia came down into the drawing-room ; she resumed her 
place in the family, and everything went on as before the 
shadow dropped down upon Pine Hill. Mary Kingman 
had been the chamber companion of the invalid: she could 
not be her drawing-room companion. She declined, not in 
so many words, but by her actions, to join the family group 
gathered once more in the brilliant apartment. She felt that 
she did not belong there. She had come to heal the sick ; 
she had no part or lot in the joys of that reunited household ; 
only in their sorrows. Her mission was done. 

Julia, I must leave you to-day,” said she, on the morning 
of the day after that on which the invalid had spent an hour 
in the drawing-room. 

“ Why must you leave me?” 

“ I think you do not need me any longer.” 

“ I shall always need you, Mary.” 

“ I have been away a month now.” 

“ But you are not needed at home. Your father is better.” 

“ I feel that I ought not to stay any longer, unless you 
need me.” 

“ I am not so selfish as to say that I absolutely need you, 
Mary. I don’t know what mother would have done without 
you. She was almost worn out. You have spent your days 
and nights over me when I could not help myself. I am 
sure I shall miss you very much if you go.” 

“-You sleep well nights now, and I do not think I am 
really required.” 

“ I should be very glad to have you stay.” 

“ I know YOU would, Julia.” 


THE DEMIGOD OF PINE HILL, 


275 


“ Mary, why didn’t you come down into the drawing- 
room yesterday? ” asked Julia. “ Eugene inquired for you.” 

Mary’s pale face flushed a little, and she was embarrassed. 
Her look was the key to her conduct. 

“ I could not,” she replied, with some hesitation, for she 
fully intended to avoid the topic to which Julia’s remark 
must inevitably lead. 

“ Why not? ” 

“ It was hardly proper for me to do so.” 

“ Why, Mary?” 

“ You will not ask me, Julia, to say anything more about 
it,” pleaded Mary. 

‘‘ After all you have done for me, — after the sleepless 
nights you have spent at my bedside, — I think you ought 
to regard me as your friend, Mary.” 

“ I do.” 

“ But you will not even permit me to be grateful to you. 
Why do you wish to go ? ” 

“ I think it best,” stammered Mary. “ I must go ; for 
your sake, if not for my own.” 

“ Not for my sake, Mary.” 

“ You do not know what your brother said to me yester- 
day,” added Mary, with averted eyes. 

“ I can guess.” 

“ He asked me to be his wife.” 

“ Well, what if he did?” said Julia, with a smile. “ He 
loves you.” 

“ Think what I am, Julia.” 

“ Pray don’t repeat that. Mary, do you love Eugene?” 

“ I will not answer. If I did love him, that would be the 
strongest reason why I should avoid him — why I should 
lefuse to let him contaminate himself by contact with me.” 

“ Mary, I will not forgive you if you talk so.” 

“ But you understand what I mean. Are you willing 
that your brother should become the husband of such as 1 
am?” 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


t^6 

“ I am willing/’ replied Julia, firmly. 

“ ou cannot mean it ! ” 

“ I do mean it. If you had asked me the question before 
I was sick, I might have answered it differently.” 

“ Youi first thought was the truest. I have been with you 
so much, that perhaps you have become reconciled to the 
idea, for Eugene says he told you of it before.” 

‘‘ He did ; and, to be candid, both my mother and myself 
objected.” 

“ With good reason.” 

“ I know that Eugene never will be happy without you.” 

“ This is the reason why you have withdrawn your objec- 
tion.” 

Julia’s sickness had chastened her spirit. Worldly dis- 
tinctions were just now less clearly defined in her mind. 
What had seemed intolerable before was now considered 
upon its own merits. Besides, Julia and her mother had 
both been subjected to a powerful influence — tliat of Dr. 
Bilks. 

“ Mary, my objections were unreasonable. I am thankful 
they are removed,” continued Julia. “ I understood the 
reason why you would not visit the drawing-room yesterday. 
Now, let us be friends ; let me tell you exactly how we 
stand. Your being here during my sickness has nothing 
whatever to do with our present views. By the way, Alary, 
do you know that Dr. Bilks is one of your best friends? ” 

“ He was very kind to me.” 

“ But he thinks there is no person in the world like you. 
He sa\s you are an angel, in spirit and in person. Think 
of that.” 

“ It isn’t worth thinking of. Perhaps I have n(;t so high 
a regard for Dr. Bilks’s opinion as you have.” 

Julia blushed. 

“ He speaks as your friend. I believe, if it were not fo: 
crossing Eugene’s path, he would make love t'* you him 
self.” 


THE DEMIGOD OF PINE HILL. 2 *]*] 

“ There is no danger,” replied Mary, with a faint smile. 

He seems to be already very well occupied.” 

Julia blushed again. 

“ You are getting quite facetious, Mary. But we were 
speaking of 3^our case, not mine.” 

“ Dr. Bilks is little likely to be turned aside from his pres- 
ent hope.” 

Do }'Ou think he looks upon me in any other view than 
that of a patient — an interesting patient, if you please?” 

“ Certainly I do ; and I am only sorry that he has not a 
prettier name to give you. If you don’t love him, Julia, it 
is time for you to begin to demonstrate in that direction.” 

“ Love him ! I hadn’t thought of such a thing,’' protested 
Julia. 

“ It certainly lies between him and Mr. Birch.” 

“ Poor Dick ! ” said Julia. “ I would give the world to 
see him out of his troubles. After what he said in court, I 
hardly dare to look at him — indeed, I haven’t had the 
opportunity, for he never comes to Pine Hill now. Poor 
fellow ! I am sorry for him ! But we are away from the 
subject ; I was speaking of you and Eugene. The doctor 
has converted my mother.” 

“ Converted her? ” 

“ When Dr. Bilks came to see me, day before yesterday, - 
we had a long talk about Eugene and yourself. My brother 
has made no secret of his intention. He had even told Dr. 
Bilks and Dick of it a month ago. Mother did not like it, 
as I said ; but the doctor argued the matter so prettily, thal 
she even became anxious to have the marriage take place. 
So, you see, it is a settled thing.” 

“ I think not, Julia.” 

“ If you consent, it is.” 

“ I do not consent.” 

“ Why should you be obstinate? Do you love Eugene?*' 

“ I will not permit him ta disgrace himself,” 

24 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


278 

“ Disgrace ! exclaimed Julia, petulantly. “ If his friends 
do not object, why should you ? ” 

“ You have been argued into this position — converted to 
it. I am much obliged to Dr. Bilks for the trouble he has 
taken on my account ; but I wish he had not spoken. Dr. 
Bilks is a demigod at Pine Hill now.” 

“ But, Mary, Eugene loves you ; he will be miserable 
without you.” 

The poor girl trembled with emotion. She knew what a 
joy it would be to be taken to the heart of him she had so 
long loved ; to be plucked from the shame and disgrace to 
which she had been innocently doomed, and folded in the 
loving arms of one who would cherish only her. But while 
she would be raised up from immeasurable depths, he would 
be brought down ; and she felt that it would be mean and 
selfish in her to consent to the base equilibrium, though his 
descent were infinitely less than her elevation. It was a 
trying ordeal : she would not consent. 

Julia reasoned with all the eloquence of gratitude and 
friendship, with all the force of a strong will and a woman’s 
logic. Dr. Bilks, often quoted, declared that Mary was an 
angel ; that she was more beautiful in person, more gifted in 
mind, more varied in accomplishments, but, above all, more 
richly endowed in the higher graces of a lofty soul and a 
loving heart, than any other woman — “ present company 
excepted ” — whom he had ever met ; and a physician is 
always in society, and sees women as they are. Dr. Bilks 
was very kind to say all this, but Mary was not especially 
[)leased with it. It was too fulsome, and looked like a 
special plea. It was not surprising that Mrs. Hungerford 
and Julia should be converted by arguments so well put, 
part’cularly as they came from the mouth of the demigod of 
Pine Hill ; but the fact that any argument at all was needed 
to remove acknowledged objections, was the best reason that 
Mary could think of for withholding her consent. 

Dr. Bilks came upon his morning professional visit — ail 


THE DEMIGOD OF PINE HILL. 


279 

his visits were regarded as professional. Julia endeavored 
to persuade her friend to accompany her to the drawing- 
room, but Mary could not be prevailed upon even to encoun- 
ter the earnest gaze of Eugene, after the ofl'er he had made. 
She had never walked in the Pine Hill grounds — had seen 
tliem only from the window. While the family were in the 
drawing-room, she would have an opportunity to walk an 
hour, and explore the premises. She went out at the side 
door, so that her exit could not be observed, and perambu- 
lated the grounds down to the river, admired the fine taste 
displayed, and enjoyed the cool breeze which fanned her 
cheek, as she sat in the elev^ated summer-house. On her 
return, wdien the hour had nearly expired, to her great an- 
noyance she discovered Eugene approaching. Hoping he 
had not seen her, she stepped into an arbor concealed in a 
group of pines. ^ 

“ Why do you shun me, Mary? ” said Eugene, as he pre- 
sented himself before her. 

He had seen her ; he had come out to find her, when he 
learned that she w^as not in the house. 

“ After what you said to me yesterday, it is better that I 
should avoid you, Mr. Hungerford,” she replied, hardly able 
to speak, so violent was the emotion that agitated her. 

“ Have I become offensive to you? ” 

“ You know it is not that.” 

“Why should you avoid me? Mary, I have not ceased 
to love you since we went to school together.” 

“ Do not speak of those things, Mr. Hungerford.” 

“ Mary, I love you ! It is treason to my own heart to be 
silent.” 

“ Let me go, now.” 

“ Go, if you will, Mary ; but I shall love you the same.” 

She looked up into his face. It was more eloquent than 
his words. The expression of love which lighted up his 
noble countenance seemed to chain her to the spot. Her 
will was to go, but she could not. In his presence she was 
powerless. 


28 o 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ Did you ever love me, Mary ? ” he asked. 

“ I must not answer.” 

“ You did ; if it were not so, you would answer me.” 

“ I did love you, Mr. Hungerford ; but that was when we 
were children.” 

“ Have you ceased to love me? ” 

“ I was the wife of another — I believed I was — I had no 
I ight then to think of you.” 

“ Did you love your husband? ” he asked, solemnly. 

“ If I answer you, it is only to excuse my own rashness 
and folly. If I did not love him when we were married, I 
knew that his devotion would soon conquer what was in mv 
heart.” 

“ What?” 

“ I did love you — once ; I will not deny it. When I 
stood on the shore without a friend in the world, I yielded 
to the importunity of Mr. Buckstone. I could not have done 
so, if I had not been so poor and helpless ; if I had had even 
my father’s poor roof to cover me. You know it all, Mr. 
Hungerford.” 

“I knew it all before. I surmised it all — I believed it 
all. If you loved me, Mary, why did you accept him? ” 

“I endeavored to banish the feeling from my heart; 1 
thought I had done so.” 

“ Why did you try to banish it? ” 

‘‘ Because it was hopeless.” 

“ Was it hopeless? ” 

“ I believed it was. When I heard you spoken of as the 
wealthiest man in this part of the country, I did not despair. 
It was only when you were cold to me, when you told mt 
we could be only friends^ that my heart gave up its guest. 
I did not blame you. I was not a fit mate for one like you. 
I wa'* not then ; still less am I now.” 

Mary wept. 

“ I did not say we could be only friends, Mary.” 

“ That was what you meant,” sobbed she. 


THE DEMIGOD OF PINE HILL. 


281 


“ Fai from it.” 

‘‘ I thought so. This, and being driven from my fathers 
house, made me listen to Mr. Buckstone. He loved me — 
at first ; at least, I supposed he did.” 

“ Mary, I am the author of all your miseries and misfor- 
tunes.” 

“ O, no, Mr. Hungerford ! ” 

“ I am ; if I had spoken the thought that was in my heart, 
all this could not have happened. Let me atone for my fault 
by making you mine now.” 

“ Never, Mr. Hungerford ! I should despise myself if I 
could be so selfish. You know what I am,” said she, 
bitterly. 

“ Mary, I love you still.” 

“ Nay, you cannot love me now.” 

“ With all my soul. I could have wished that nothing had 
come between you and me ; but I still love you. Why 
should we be separated? ” 

“ I can hear no more, Mr. Hungerford ; ” and she started 
to leave the arbor. 

“ Do you hate me now because I did not speak when I 
should have spoken ? ” 

“ I never blamed you for turning away from me when 
your position in society was so changed.” 

“ It was not changed, Mary. I ask nothing now. Per 
haps it was wrong for me to speak of these things at the 
present time, but my heart would not be silent.” 

“ Mr. Hungerford, this subject is painful to me. May I 
ask you not to speak of it again?” 

“ Never?” 

“ After my brother’s trial, I will give you a final answer.’ 

“ I am satisfied, Mary.” 

They walked back to the house together; and that after 
noon Mary returned to The Great Bell. 

24* 


282 


THE WAY OF THE WORED. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


DICK BIRCH S SUGGESTION 


UGENE, why doesn’t Dick Birch come here any 



J— > now?” asked Julia, on the afternoon of Mary’s de- 
parture. 

“ He was here a dozen times a day when you were 
sickest.” 

He doesn’t come at all now.” 

‘‘ Do you .wish to see him, Julia?” 

“ Certainly I wisli to see him. Dick was one of my best 
friends.” 

“ He is still.” 

“ He hasn’t even called upon me since I got better.” 

“ He explained himself to you the night before the exam- 
ination of Ross Kingman.” 

“You had some suspicions of him.” 

“ They were all removed the next day, Julia.” 

“ Why need he have said what he did about me in the 
court-room? It was town talk for a month.” 

“ Pie was under oath, and it was dragged out of him ; but 
he didn’t say a word that betraved a thought of yours, 
Julia.” 

“ There was not a thought of mine that he could betray,” 
said she, with some spirit. “ I alwa3^s liked Dick very well ; 
but if he had any thoughts relating to me, he ought to have 
kept them to himself.” 

“ Dick is honest. He keeps back nothing.” 

“ I do not know that I blame him, if he was obliged tc 


DICK BIRCH’S SUGORSTIOTm. 


2S3 


say what he did in the court ; but it has placed me in a very 
awkward position. I could not walk on the same side of 
the street with him without exciting remark.” 

“ F or this reason Dick has kept away from you, refusing 
even to see you.” 

‘‘ Do you think he wants to see me?” 

“ Of course he does.” 

Why is he so fearful, then, of what people will say ? ” 
He is not, on his own account ; only on yours.” 

“ He is very considerate,” replied Julia, rather ironically. 

“ He has too much regard for you even to subject you to 
any annoyance. For other reasons, too, he would keep 
away from you at the present time. He is to be examined 
to-morrow.” 

“ Eugene, can it be possible that we have been deceived 
in Dick?” asked Julia, with a look of painful anxiety on her 
pale face. 

“ No, it is not possible. I can never doubt Dick again. 
If the charge against him is proved to my satisfaction, I 
must believe it.” 

“ The evidence is very strong — is it not?” 

“Yes, that cannot be denied. Just now, it is a question 
of veracity between Dick and Dr. Bilks, so far as we are 
concerned. If you believe one, you cannot believe the 
other. The doctor has sworn that he saw Dick on the Point 
Road that night ; and Dick has sworn that he was at home, 
and in his own room.” 

“What do you think, Eugene?” 

“ I do not know what to think, Julia. Since you have 
been sick, I have hardly given the matter a moment’s reflec- 
tion. I have hoped that, by some means, both their state- 
ments might be reconciled ; but this is not possible.” 

“ I’erhaps it may be yet ; for I cannot believe that eithei 
of them would perjure himself.” 

“ One thing is evident, Julia : either Dr. Bilks or Dick 
Birch is a most consummate scoundrel.” 


284 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

“ It would be terrible to believe that either was suca. 1 
cannot think that Dr. Bilks would be so base, so vile, as 
to swear falsely.” 

“ Can you believe that Dick would be ? ” asked Eugene, 
warmly. 

“I cannot; but the evidence is very strong against hiiri, 
and there is none at all against the doctor.” 

“ If Dr. Bilks can explain where he was on the night of 
the murder, and show me how the letter found upon Buck- 
stone’s body happened to be written on his paper, I could 
not reasonably doubt his truthfulness.” 

“ He says Dick wrote the letter in his office ; and he 
explains where he was that night.” 

“ So he does ; but when we want Sandy McGuire and 
his wife, his two witnesses, they are gone. The doctor 
drew five thousand dollars about this time, which, no doubt, 
went into Sandy’s pocket ; for that is the sum I offered the 
wretch for telling the truth.” 

“ Perhaps he can explain all this.” 

“ Until he does, I shall have my doubts.” 

“ Think what the doctor has done for me ! ” exclaimed 
Julia. 

“ I do think of it ; and I am as grateful to him as you can 
be, Julia ; but justice must be blind.” 

“ Poor Dick ! I am afraid ” 

“ Don’t condemn Dick,” interposed Eugene, “ He has 
been at work on this case from the beginning. The truth 
will come out in the end ; and I am willing to wait, without 
prejudice to either.” 

Eugene was disposed to be impartial between his two 
friends. Since Dr. Bilks had become the demigod of Pine 
Hill, it was as painful to doubt one as the other. To the 
doctor he owed his sister’s life ; to Dick, the obligations of 
years of friendship. Who could decide between two men 
having such claims? 

At the appointed time on the following morning, Eugene 


mcK. BIRCHES SUGGBSttON. 


285 

drove Dick over to Summerville. They paid a visit to Ross 
Kingman, in the jail, as they had often done before during 
his weary confinement. The prisoner was still comfortable 
and hopeful. He had ceased to believe that Birch was the 
person he had seen with Buckstone ; for Dick’s denial of the 
fact was enough for him. 

The examination commenced. Dick, with the assistance 
of Mr. Darling, conducted his own defence. Much of the 
testimony was the same that had been presented at the ex- 
amination of Ross ; but there were many new faces in the 
court-room. Hubbard swore that he believed the person he 
had seen with Buckstone was Mr. Birch. Dr. Bilks swore 
positively that the person was Mr. Birch. Then Dick opened 
his battery on the doctor, and dragged out the whole story 
about “ Dr. Bilks’s baby” again ; but the witness was easy 
and confident this time. 

“ Dr. Bilks, have you seen Sandy McGuire since you 
visited him on the day of Ross Kingman’s examination?” 
asked Dick. 

“ I have, several times.” 

“ When did you see him last?” 

“ Half an hour ago.” 

“Where is he now?” 

“ Here, your ah nor ! ” shouted Sandy, from the crowd, to 
the great amusement of the court and the audience, 

“ My patient is also here,” added the doctor, blandly. 

“ Have you paid this man any money?” 

“ Divil a cint ! ” shouted Sandy, which called forth a 
leproof from the officers ; and Sandy was compelled to 
repress hiiiiielf. 

“ I have not,” replied Dr. Bilks. 

“ Did McGuire visit you on the day Buckstone’s body was 
found ?’» 

“ He did.” 

“Did you draw any money from the bank that day ? ” 

“ I did ; five thousand dollars.” 


^86 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


‘‘ What did you do with this money? ” 

“ Paid this note with it,” replied Dr. Bilks, taking from 
his pocket-book a note from which the signature had been 
torn off. 

The document was examined, and Dick felt that one ol 
his strong points was slipping away from him. 

“ Is this note in your usual handwriting?” 

“ It is.” 

“ Where did you pay it? ” 

“ In New York.” 

It would be impossible to make any one believe that the 
doctor had not drawn the five thousand dollars from the 
bank for the purpose of paying his note in New York. 
The witness appeared to so much better advantage at this 
time than on the former occasion, that what he had lost then 
he more than regained now. 

Experts were put upon the stand to testify in relation to 
the letter found upon the body of Buckstone. They pointed 
out in what respect it differed from Dick’s usual handwriting, 
and in what it resembled that of the doctor. They were 
satisfied that the body of the letter, and the superscription 
on the envelope, were written by different persons ; but with 
all the points of difference, and all the points of resemblance, 
they were not sufficiently confident that the important letter 
was written either by Dick or by Dr. Bilks to establish any- 
thing. The evidence of the experts only created a doubt in 
the minds of the magistrate and the people ; and partisans 
on both sides could avcribe the writing to whom they pleased. 
Nothing was settled. 

The only thing th/1 remained foi the accused to do was to 
rebut the evidence oL Dr. Bi^ks- if he could. The testimony 
of Sandy McGuire and the mother of “ Dr. Bilks’s baby ” 
had not yet been introduced — it was not relevant ; but Dick 
called both of them, and examined them at great length. 
Sandy knew just a few facts, and to these he testified ; but 
he was utterly oblivious of everything else. Either he was 


DICK birch’s suggestion 


287 


more devoted to the simple truth now than ever before, or 
he had been carefully trained to perforin the part he acted so 
well. There were some discrepancies in his evidence, but 
they were slight. The mother of the baby was equally wise 
and prudent. What she knew was insignificant compared 
with what she did not know. She had an astonishingly bad 
memory of collateral facts. She had been unfortunate, slu 
said ; and she could not remember the name of the father of 
“ Dr. Bilks’s baby ” at first ; and the magistrate would not 
permit Dick to press the matter. 

Though Sandy and this woman were hardly regarded as 
credible witnesses, they said nothing that absolutely injured 
Dr. Bilks. The magistrate — not the one who had occupied 
the bench at the examination of Ross Kingman — proceeded 
t ) review the testimony. It had been proved that Mr. Birch 
was with Buckstone just before the murder ; but there was 
not a particle of evidence to show that he had been with 
him at the time of the murder, or that he concealed the 
body after the murder. Mr. Birch had desired to procure 
the re-marriage of the deceased with Mary Kingman. He 
had no motive in desiring the death of Buckstone, and no 
motive for concealing the body. If he had any selfish views, 
they would have been promoted by the living Buckstone, 
rather than by his death. 

It was at least doubtful whether Mr. Birch wrote the letter 
found upon the body of the murdered man. If he did, it 
proved nothing except what was already granted. Dr. Bilks 
was not under examination, and the rebutting testimony 01 
the doubtful witnesses need not be considered. So far as 
the doctor’s testimony was material, it was amply supported 
by the evidence of Hubbard,' and the acknowledgments of 
Ross Kingman. There could be no doubt that Buckstone 
was accompanied to the island by a man. Granting that 
this man was Mr. Birch, was it proved that he mutilated 
and concealed the body, or that he even knew of the mur- 
der? Buckstone went eighty rods from the spot where he 


288 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


was seen with Mr. Birch, betore he was killed. The ac- 
cused may have crossed the channel at this time, landed 
where the boat was found, with his handkerchief and cigar. 

On the morning after the murder, Mr. Birch appeared as 
usual, according to the testimony of Mr. Hungerford and 
Dr. Bilks. There was nothing unusual in his manner. He 
liad always maintained a high character, and it was difficult to 
l)elieve that such a man would resort to a measure so revolt- 
ing as severing the head from a corpse, in order to conceal 
the crime of one in whom he appeared to have no especial 
interest. Why the head was removed does not appear, for 
all the papers, jewelry, and other articles, remained upon the 
body, and enabled the finders to identify it. The head would 
hardly have added any strength to the proof of identity. 
There was not a particle of evidence to show that Mr. Birch 
was present on the island, even at the time of the murder ; 
and the prisoner is discharged^' 

The people generally were not satisfied with this decision. 
If Mr. Birch had not sunk the body, who had? Some 
thought the magistrate was unwilling to expose a brother 
lawyer to trial on such a charge ; others, that he had eaten 
too many good dinners with Dick Birch and Mr. Hunger- 
ford ; and still others, that he had been bribed to give this 
decision. If the result was not what was expected, — and it 
certainly was not, — it is more probable that the magistrate 
used his common sense, his knowledge of human nature, as 
well as the evidence spoken by witnesses. Whether he w’as 
right or wrong, the sequel will show to the satisfaction of 
the reader. 

Without regard to the result of the examination, it was 
certain that Dick Birch had not gained anything in establish- 
ing his character for veracity and integrity. Though he was 
relieved from the terrors of the law, he was none the less 
guilty in the eyes of the people. He had not redeemed 
himself in the minds of even his best friends, who were still 
left in doubt and anxiety. 


DICK birch’s SUCGSSTION 


289 


“ Mr. Birch, I congratulate you ! ” exclaimed Dr. Bilks, 
rushing up to him, after the decision of the magistrate. 

“ Thank you ; but why do you congratulate me?” replied 
Dick, languidly. 

“ Upon your escape. I knew it would be so. You have 
compelled me to defend myself, and I have done so ; but I 
assure you, I have always regarded you as my friend, and T 
am rejoiced to find you relieved of this charge.” 

“ You are very kind ; but I should have preferred to be 
committed for trial.” 

“ Why so?” 

“ Because the truth has not come out yet.” 

“ I am very sorry if it has not. My position from the 
beginning has been established. Of course I knew you 
were with Buckstone, but I was satisfied that it was for a 
good purpose.” 

“ Dr. Bilks, as I look at the result just reached, I am 
ruined.” 

“Ruined?” 

“ My character is spoiled, though I may keep out of 
prison. If this were the end, I would go into obscurity, 
and never show my face among men again.” 

“ Nonsense, my dear fellow ! You have been vindicated.” 

“ No ; to-day has plunged me deeper than ever in the 
mire.” 

“ Mr. Birch, you made some heavy charges against me 
at one time. You told me to my face that I was the 
person with Buckstone,” said Dr. Bilks, with his heartiest 
laugh. 

“ I will not repeat the charge.” 

“Do you still believe it?” demanded the doctor, who 
appeared to regard the charge as one of the pleasantest 
of jokes. 

“ It does not matter now.” 

“ Birch, let us be friends, as before. I am grateful to you 
for many kindnesses; and, whatever your opinion of me 

25 


THE WAV OF THE WORLD. 


290 

may be, 1 shall always hold you in the highest 1 espect and 
esteem.” 

Dick was silent. The court had adjourned, and they were 
almost alone in the room. 

“ Have I injured you, Birch?” demanded the doctor. 

“ You know best.” 

“ Let us be friends, Birch.” 

“ Doctor, that can never be. I shall treat you like a gen- 
tleman, but you and I can never be friends. I believe you 
are my enemy.” 

“ I am astonished, Mr. Birch ! ” exclaimed Dr. Bilks ; 
and he looked astonished. “ What have I done?” 

“ I need not tell you — I will not. Your words, the very 
sight of you is loathsome to me.” 

“ Why should it be so?” 

“ I believe that, under the guise of friendship for Mr, 
Hungerford and for me, you have endeavored to poison his 
mind ; to set him against me,” replied Dick, with energy. 

“Why should I, Mr. Birch?” 

“ That is best known to you.” 

“ Mr. Birch, I have been your friend in deed and in truth. 
I have never thrust myself in your friend’s way. I seldom 
saw him before the sickness of Julia. I have done what I 
could for her, and my professional duty to my patient required 
frequent visits.” 

“You saved her life ; and for that I am as grateful to you 
as her own family.” 

“ She is well — go and see her, Mr. Birch.” 

“ Never, until the stains are washed from my good name ! ” 

“ You judge yourself, as well as me, too harshly. Julia 
V. ill be glad to see you.” 

“ You know that I love her, and you mock me.” 

“ Mock you, my dear fellow ! I saved her from death for 
your sake.” 

Dick’s face was red with anger. He had already spurned 
tlie doctor, who would not resent his words, and his profes- 


DICK birch’s suggestion. 


29 


sions of regard were repulsive to him. Although he could 
not prove it, although all the evidence was against him, 
Dick Birch could not help believing that the doctor was a 
villain, and that, sooner or later, a crash would come, when 
men would see him as he was. Dick tried to be politic, and 
treat the doctor as a friend, but his nature rebelled against 
the attempt. What he was, he appeared to be. 

“ Dr. Bilks, I think this conversation has been long 
enough,” added Dick, rising from his chair. 

“ Mr. Birch, you have played this game out, and you have 
lost. You are disappointed and morose. I am sorry for 
you ; I compassionate your misfortunes ; and I excuse your 
rude speech. Let me add, that I am still your friend ; when 
you think better of this thing I shall be happy to see you ; 
until then, I am your obedient servant.” 

The doctor turned on his heel and walked away, not 
angry, apparently, but disappointed to find that the issue of 
the trial had not removed Dick’s unpleasant manner towards 
him. Eugene had gone to the hotel for his horse. When 
he returned to the court-house he found his friend in a very 
unamiable frame of mind. 

“ Dick, you are not satisfied,” said Hungerford, when they 
were seated in the buggy. 

“ I am not ; I never was farther from being satisfied in my 
life,” replied Dick. 

“ You have been discharged.” 

‘‘ Discharged ! ” exclaimed Birch, bitterly. 

“You ought to be satisfied with the result, so far as it 
' goes.” 

“ Are you satisfied with it?” 

“ I am.” 

“ Then you are not my friend.” 

“ I am your friend, and it is for this reason 1 am satisfied.’ 

“ Am I not still a liar in the eyes of the people ? Am I 
not liable to be arrested for perjury, at any moment?” 

“ There is no danger.” 


292 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


I do not fear an arrest. I do not care foi that. Hun- 
gerford, can I be satisfied to be regarded as a liar and a 
perjurer? ” 

“ Of course not.*^ 

“ Will you associate with one who stands before the com- 
munity branded as a liar?” 

“ Don’t disturb yourself about me, Dick ; I am still your 
friend.” 

“ If Dr. Bilks is not a scoundrel, I am ! ” 

“ Not at all. It is possible, it is probable, that both of 
you are honest and true men.” 

“ Impossible ! ” 

“ So far as you and the doctor differ, it is possible that he 
is mistaken.” 

“ Mistaken, Eugene Hungerford ! Am I a fool, as well 
as a knave? Did Dr. Bilks write that letter to Buckstone, or 
did I write it?” demanded Dick, with something like fierce- 
ness in his tones and manner. 

“No matter who wrote it.” 

“ It is matter. You cannot help believing that one of us 
is a villain. If I wrote it, I am no more worthy to look you 
in the face and call you my friend ! ” 

“ Dr. Bilks has rendered us a great service, Dick ” 

“ Do not remind me of that ; I know it. I am as grateful 
to him for that as you are ; but truth and justice come before 
even the life of the one we love best.” 

“ Must I condemn him? ” 

“ Him or me ! If you believe he did not write that letter, 
you must believe I did.” 

“ I will not decide.” 

“ I say I did not write it. There is no room for a mistake 
here. Do you believe me, Hungerford?” 

“ I do, Dick.” 

“ Then is Dr. Bilks condemned?” 

“ Not at all. A third person may have written it.” 

“ That is not possible.” 


DICK birch’s suggestion. 


293 

“ Dick, you say the envelope was the one in which you 
sent your letter to Buckstone ? ” 

“ There is no doubt of it.” 

Where could Dr. Bilks have obtained it?” 

From the dead body of Buckstone.” 

“ That is absurd.” 

“ Dr. Bilks is the man who severed the head from the 
body, and sunk it in the channel,” said Dick, fiercely. 

“ Why should he have done this? ” 

I don’t know. There is a mystery which I cannot fathom 
) et ; but I will fathom it. I will probe this matter till the 
daylight shines through it in ever}^ direction.” 

I cannot believe that Dr. Bilks had anything to do with 
the murder, or with the body.” 

“ Dr. Bilks saved Julia’s life — God bless him for that! I 
ought not to ask you to decide between him and me,” added 
Dick, sadly. 

“ I hoped there would be peace now ; that both of you 
would be content to wait till time should solve the mystery. 
Dr. Bilks expresses himself in the kindest terms towards 
you, Dick. He assured me, a week ago, that you would be 
discharged ; and certainly no man could have been more 
gratified with the result to-day than he was.” 

“ He is a hypocrite. If he was gratified, it was only 
because the mark of Cain is upon me, and he asks nothing 
more for me.” 

“ You wrong him, Dick.” 

“ On my soul, I do not ! He is a miserable, sneaking 
villain ! ” 

“ Come, Dick ! This does not sound like you.” 

“ I speak only the truth ; but forgive me, Hungerford ; he 
is your friend.” 

“ He is,” replied Eugene, firmly. 

Dick was silent. He felt that he was condemned. But 
he was considerate towards his friend. He realized that 
Eugene's eyes were blinded by the services which Dr. Bilks 

25* 


294 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


had rendered his sister. He could not blame him — he 
did not. 

Hungerford, I submit with what resignation I can com- 
mand to my fate. I shall leave Poppleton to-morrow.” 

' - Leave, Dick ! ” 

' Yes, for a time — perhaps forever. I shall attend Ross 
Kingman’s trial, at Summerville.” 

“ Why should you leave?” 

“ Why should I stay? There is nothing more for me to 
do in Poppleton.” 

‘‘ Attend to my affairs as usual.” 

‘‘ Can you trust a liar, a perjurer? ” 

“ You are unjust and unkind, Dick. You know I have no 
such opinion of you.” 

“You cannot well avoid having such an opinion. I shall 
go, Hungerford ; I shall return only when Dr. Bilks is sent 
to the state prison, or driven from the town. Whatever his 
purpose, he has accomplished it.” 

Dick looked sharply into Eugene’s face. 

“ What purpose can he have?” demanded Eugene. 

“ Hungerford, what I am going to say will almost choke 
me, but I must say it ; ” and Dick actually trembled with 
emotion. 

“ What, Dick?” asked Eugene, as he drew up his horse 
before the Bell River House. 

“ Hungerford, don’t let Dr. Bilks marry Julia until you 
have seen the end of this matter. Good by, Hungerford ; ” 
and Dick Birch, after convulsively grasping the hand of his 
fri<5nd, leaped from the vehicle, and rushed into the hotel. 

Eugene was paralyzed by the suggestion contained in these 
words. He looked at the door a moment, then turned his 
horse and drove towards Pine Hill. Dick was angry and 
excitea •, he was in no condition to speak calmly. It was 
be^t to leave him alone for a time. He would drive home 
an ' inform his mother and Julia of the result of the exami- 
ne • »n, and then return. 


\ 

mCK BIRCH'S SUGGESTION. ^^5 

“ Marry Dr. Bilks,” repeated he several times, as he drove 
towards Pine Hill. Had the doctor driven Dick from Julia’s 
presence for this purpose? He had been more than a phy- 
sician to Julia — he was now, when she no longer needed 
his services as such. Dick’s words were suggestive, at 
least. 



296 


% 

THE WAY OF THE WOELl>. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

JULIA HUNGERFORD. 

“ A ND this is the end of all my hopes ! ” exclaimed Dick 
Birch, as he rushed into his room in the Bell River 
House. He was gloomy, sad, and despondent. The brightest 
vision of life had eluded his grasp, for Julia Hungerford was 
already in the toils of Dr. Bilks. She had forgotten him. 
If she ever cherished a sentiment of regard for him, it had 
passed away. He was an outcast from her presence, while 
the demigod of Pine Hill was constantly with her. There 
was no difficulty in prophesying what the result would be. 
In a few months, perhaps a few weeks, she would become 
the wife of Dr. Bilks ; and people would sentimentally add 
that the life he had saved was consecrated to him. 

Eugene was blinded by his sense of obligation to the doc- 
tor. What he had seen before he could not see now ; but 
Dick had given him a solemn warning, and he hoped that 
he would profit by it. The attentions of Dr. Bilks had been 
too marked to escape the notice of the gossips of Poppleton, 
and a marriage was confidently expected. Even Dick, now 
banished from Julia’s presence, accepted the reports ; but he 
could not reconcile himself to such a union. He loved Julia, 
but he felt that he could conquer his own passion if the one 
who led her to the altar were worthy of her. To see her 
the wife of such a man as he believed Dr. Bilks to be was 
intolerable. He had uttered his warning ; it had cost him a 
great sacrifice of pride to do it ; but he had done it, and he 
could do no more. 


JULIA MUNGERPORU. 


297 

Dick Birch had decided what to do ; he had already said 
good by to Eugene, and he intended to leave Poppleton that 
night. He had not utterly despaired of doing justice to him- 
self and justice to Dr. Bilks. If an angel from heaven had 
assured him that the doctor was a villain, he could not have 
been more confident of the fact ; but his enemy was as cun- 
ning as he was unscrupulous. Thus far he had had his own 
way ; thus far he had explained everything that tended to 
implicate him, even in a falsehood, and had fortified all his 
statements till they were plausible to the public mind. 

Dr. Bilks was a popular man. He drank whiskey with 
the tap-room politicians ; he talked slang with the fast 
young men ; he breathed piety to the parsons, and gave 
twenty dollars for foreign missions ; he ate the best of sup- 
pers at the Bell River House with the lawyers, sea captains, 
and mill agents ; and as a physician, he made old women of 
both sexes believe they were dying, and then miraculously 
gave them a new lease of life. He talked and laughed with 
all men and all women, and compelled even the cavillers to 
be his friends. He planted an old woman’s corn and pota- 
toes for her with his own hands, and somehow everybody in 
the place found out what a kind act he had done within 
twenty-four hours. He carried nice things to the sick rooms 
of the poor whenever there was a possibility of the fact being 
known. People did not wish to believe anything ill of such 
a man ; and not wishing to do so, it would have been hard 
to convince them that the doctor was not a first-class angel. 

On the other hand, Dick Birch was rather brusque in his 
manner. He never went out of his way to make a friend of 
any man. When he did good deeds, he did them in silence 
and darkness. If he liked a man, he manifested it ; if he did 
not like him, he did not “ toady” to him because he was one 
of the selectmen, the owner of a factory, or a member of 
Congress. Dick, therefore, was not a popular man, in the 
sense that Dr. Bilks had earned this distinction. He was a 
straightforward, blunt man; but being a gentleman by 


I'llfi WAV Of' Itnu WOttLD. 


29S 

natuiv as well as by education, he treated all men with cour- 
tesy, and therefore he was not unpopular. 

The people were more willing to believe that Dick Birch 
was a scoundrel than that the doctor even told a falsehood, 
to say nothing of the crime of perjury. Against such odds it 
was not easy to contend. Dick did not purpose to contend 
any longer at present in Poppleton ; but he meant to inquire 
into the doctor’s antecedents. He wished to know whether 
tlie popular physician had always been what he appeared to 
be now. He had been intimate with Dr. Bilks for several 
months, and he had sufficient material upon which to base 
his investigations. He intended to follow the doctor from 
college down to his arrival at Poppleton. 

Dick believed that Dr. Bilks had a purpose, though its 
nature was not readily fathomed. Why did the doctor labor 
so hard to prove that he, Dick, was with Buckstone on the 
night of the murder? Was it to conceal his own agency in 
the affair? Was it to bring him into bad repute with Hun- 
gerford, and thus drive him from Pine Hill, and from Julia, 
that he might woo and wed her himself? Dick would have 
been satisfied with this last suggestion if it had not involved 
a greater difficulty. Why was Dr. Bilks persuading Buck- 
stone to marry Mary? In what manner did it concern him? 
Had all these events, including the murder, been contrived 
by him to accomplish the one purpose of winning the hand 
of Julia? 

The more Dick thought of these things, the more confused 
they became. There was something which coul 1 not be 
explained, — a mystery too deep to be fathomed ^'^ Lth his 
present means, — and he resolved to follow up the doctor 
until he obtained the clew. A purpose makes a man cheer- 
ful. Something to be done is a sovereign balm for all the 
ills of life, and Dick rose from his reflections with a vision 
of triumph crowning his thought. He left the hotel, and 
walked over to the bank building, where he had an office, 
and where, since his voluntary banishment from Pine Hill, 


JULIA UUNGERlrollD. 


m 

he had kept the books and papers of his employer. He 
adjusted the former and arranged the latter. He drew the 
balance of his salary, and then carried all the valuables into 
the bank to be deposited in the safe. He left Eugene’s busi- 
ness in perfect order, as he had always kept it. He wrote a 
letter, explaining all the operations that needed explanation. 
His employer’s affairs could not suffer from his absence. 
He locked the office, left the key with the cashier, and 
returned to the hotel. His trunk was already packed. He 
did not wish to see Eugene again. The sight of his friend 
was almost painful to him, since he could not justify himself. 

There was a schooner in the river which was ready to sail 
for Boston, and would leave at high tide. He intended to 
depart by this vessel if her captain would take a passenger, 
and he procured a wagon and driver at the stable to convey 
him down to the wharf. The captain of the schooner, with- 
out giving any reason, refused to take a passenger ; probably 
on account of the popular prejudice against the applicant. 
He then decided to go as far as Summerville in the wagon. 
He was fearful that Eugene would follow him, for he knew 
that his friend would not abandon him, and would not per- 
mit him to depart without more remonstrances than he cared 
to hear. To avoid going by Pine Hill, he ordered his driver 
to take the Point Road. 

He had proceeded but a short distance before he met Hub- 
bard, the fisherman, coming up from his boat. The man 
hailed him, and expressed a strong desire to speak with him 
in private. Dick got out, directing his driver to wait for 
him, and followed Hubbard a short distance down the 
beach. 

“ Mr. Birch, I cal’late you think hard of me for what 1 
said on the stand to-day over to Summerville,” Hubbard 
began. 

“ By no means ; I think you said what you believed to be 
Ihe truth.” 

“ I cal’late I did, Mr. Birch. I alius liked you. You did 


300 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


me two or three good turns, and I alr/t the man to forgit a 
favor.” 

“ I think you are an honest man, Hubbard ; but I am in a 
hurry just now, and I hope this will satisfy you, so far as I 
am concerned.” 

“ I cal’late I’ve got sunthin that you want,” continued 
Hubbard, with an expressive grin. 

“ What have you got?” 

“ 1 don’t exactly know what it is. This has been a kind 
of a broken da}^ to me, and I thought, when I got back from 
Summerville, I’d jest take a turn over to the rocks there on 
The Great Bell, and see if there was any lobsters there.” 

“Did you get any?” asked Dick, with a smile, but rather 
impatiently, for, not being in the lobster trade, he was not 
particularly interested in the fisherman’s narrative. 

“ I cal’late I did get some nice ones ; but I don’t reckon 
you keer much about the lobsters. I found sunthin else.” 

“What, Hubbard?” 

“ I cal’late it’s a piece of paper. I don’t know as it’s good 
for anything,” continued Hubbard, as he took his greasy 
wallet from his pocket. “ Clean up under the rocks there, 
beyond the cliff, I found this ’ere.” He took from the wallet 
a paper stained with dirt, and half pulverized by the action 
of the salt water. “ I cal’late it has been there since the 
night of the murder. I see Buckstone’s name on it, and that 
made me think it might be wo’th sunthin to you.” 

Dick Birch eagerly took the paper. It was the letter he 
had written to Buckstone. It had been taken from the 
original envelope, and thrown away, while the letter written 
by Dr. Bilks for the occasion had been substituted, and 
replaced iu the pocket of the murdered man, where it had 
been found. This was Dick’s explanation ; it might be cor- 
rect, and might not. 

“ I thought I would give this to you, Mr. Birch,” added 
Hubbard. 

“ You did quite right.” 


JULIA HUNGERFORD. 3OI 

“ I cal’late it’s sunthin to do with the letter you told on in 
the court.” 

“ It is ; I wrote this letter, but I did not write the one 
found on the body of Buckstone. Hubbard, Dr. Bilks would 
have given you a fifty-dollar bill for this letter.” 

“ Would he? ” replied the fisherman, honestly. 

“ He would. Dr. Bilks is a villain. He sunk that 
body.” 

“ I cal’late you can’t make folks believe that,” said Hub- 
bard, incredulously. 

“ I shall make them believe it, Hubbard, one of these 
days,” replied Dick, as he took a fifty-dollar bill from his 
pocket. “You shall lose nothing by bringing this letter to 
me instead of the doctor.” 

“ Go ’way, Mr. Birch,” said Hubbard, pushing aside .the 
hand that offered him the bank note. “ I don’t want none 
of your money. I don’t take nothin I hain’t earned.” 

“But the doctor would have given you this — perhaps 
more.” 

“ I don’t keer for that ; I cal’late I ain’t goin to take no 
fifty dollars for pickin up that letter.” 

“ But you have done me a very great favor, Hubbard.” 

“ So much the better for you, and me too. I’m glad on’t. 
When I earn any money, I alius take it.” 

Hubbard positively refused to take the gift, and Dick 
determined, at some future time, that the honest fisherman 
should be fully compensated for the important service he had 
rendered. Hubbard was a simple-minded man, and it is 
probable that he woiUd have given the note to Dr. Bilks as 
readily as to Dick if he had happened to meet him first. He 
did not pretend to know much about the apparent contro- 
versy between Mr. Birch and Dr. Bilks, and he was certainly 
free from any bias for or against either. 

Dick requested the fisherman not to mention to any 
person the fact that he had found the letter, and Hubbard 
promised not to do so when assured that he might himself 
26 


302 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


be injured. Returning to the wagon lie proceeded on his 
journey to Summerville. He had enough to think of now ; 
though the finding of the letter on the beach, while it con- 
firmed what he had publicly stated, did not add much to his 
own knowledge. It was passing strange that Dr. Biliks 
should throw this letter away ; it was more remarkable that 
it should have been preserved so long. Hubbard had volun- 
teered the opinion that the paper had been rolled around a 
stone and thrown into the water ; that the stone had fallen 
out, and the letter, all crumpled up, had floated, and been 
driven by the wind under the sheltering rocks, where he had 
found it. It was certainly more prudent to sink the letter 
with a stone, than to tear it up, and throw the pieces away, 
for some of them might be found. 

Why had not the letter been burned? Dr. Bilks must 
have written the forged letter in his office. Did he go over 
to the island with this letter in his pocket? or did he return 
to prepare it after Buckstone was killed ? Dick adopted the 
latter theory as the more reasonable ; but he made veiy little 
progress in his investigation, for the facts were too meagre 
to enable him to establish a single point. He reached Sum- 
merville, discharged his team, and procured another to con- 
vey him to Newington, where he intended to take the morn- 
ing train, and where Eugene would not be likely to follow 
him. Dick went his way ; went to Boston ; went to New 
York ; went to Philadelphia ; went to Ohio ; but we will 
leave him to pursue his inquiries, and return to Pine Hill. 

“ Marry Dr. Bilks,” repeated Eugene, as he drove home. 
Certainly the doctor’s frequent visits — all of which could 
not be regarded as professional — pointed in this direction. 
He was more than a physician to her, and yet Eugene had 
hardly thought of the possibility of such an event as his sis- 
ter becoming Mrs. Bilks. He had hoped and believed that 
Dick would be his brother-in-law ; but his friend’s sensitiveness 
had driven him from the field, leaving it open to the doctor. 


JULIA HUNGERFORD. ^ 303 

As Eugene did not wish to believe that Dr. Bilks had art- 
fully conspired to expel Dick from Pine Hill, he found evi- 
dence enough in his memory to convince him that such had 
not been the fact. He was laboring to satisfy himself that 
both the doctor and Dick were honest and true men, and he 
finally came to the conclusion that his friend was jealous — 
that the green-eyed monster was the cause of all his troubles. 
He would return to the hotel, see Dick again, and persuade 
him not to leave Poppleton. 

“ Well, Eugene, what was the result of the examination?” 
asked Julia, as he entered the sitting-room, 

“ Dick was discharged.” 

“ O, I am so glad ! ” exclaimed she. 

“ Dick is so IT}".” 

“ How can that be?” 

“ He thinks his character has not been vindicated.” 

“ Poor fellow ! He is too sensitive.” 

“ I know he is, Julia, what do you think of Dr. Billis?” 
demanded Eugene, abruptly. 

“ You know what I think of him, Eugene,” she replied, 
coloring slightly, as though she feared that the gossips’ story 
was to be rehearsed by her brother. 

Do you think he is an honest man? ” 

“ Certainly I do.” 

“ Do you think Dick Birch is an honest man?” 

“ Certainly I do.” 

“ Both of them cannot be.” 

“ I am sure they are.” 

‘‘ Dr. Bilks says he saw .Dick on the Point Road the 
night of the murder ; Dick says he was in his chamber.” 

“ The doctor may be mistaken.” 

‘‘ He swears, in court, with no qualification whatever, that 
he saw him with Buckstone. Dick swears to the contrary. 
One of them has perjured himself. Which is it?” 

“ Neither ; there is some mistake.” 

“Julia, do you love Dr. 


304 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ What a question ! ” 

“ This is a very serious matter ; let us consider it before il 
is too late. Will you answer me? Do you love him? 

“ I never thought of such a thing ! ” exclaimed she. 

“ Do you love Dick Birch?” 

“ I never thought of such a thing ! ” she replied, laugliing 
.n her confusion. 

“ Do you like either of them ? ” 

“ Both.” 

“ Be candid with me, Julia.” 

“ I am, entirely so.” 

“ You evade my questions.” 

“ Indeed, I do not ! I like them both.” 

“ Do you love either of them ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ If either of them had sincerely offered you his hand and 
heart, would you have accepted him? ” 

“How should I know?” laughed Julia, to whom these 
interrogatories were exceedingly distasteful. 

“ You know that Dick loved you.” 

“ I ought to know it ; he made oatli that he did on the 
stand in court.” 

“ I am very serious, Julia ; and you treat the matter too 
lightly.” 

“As neither Dr. Bilks nor Dick ever spoke a word to me 
on the subject to w’hich you allude, how can I answer you?” 
“ Could you have loved Dick well enough to accept him ? ” 
“ I could ; but I did not.” 

“ Can you love Dr. Bilks well enough to accept him?” 

“ I can ; but I don’t,” laughed Julia. 

“ Do you regard his present attentions as merely profes 
B.onal ? ” 

“ Friendly, as well as professional.” 

“You are not blind, Julia.” 

“ I am not.” 

“ You can see what the doctor means.” 


JULIA HUNGERFORD. 


305 


I do not know that he means anything.” 

“You must be satisfied that he loves you. Why, he spent 
seven eighths of his time at Pine Hill, when you were sick- 
est ! I don’t think he slept an hour a night for a fortnight. 
The whole town began to cry out against him because he 
neglected other patients for you. When you were out of 
danger, he still came six times where he need have come 
but once. He has sent special messengers to Boston after 
grapes and flowers for you. Does all this mean nothing?” 

“ I think he likes me — loves me, if you please,” replied 
Julia, more seriously than she had before spoken. 

“ And you encourage him?” 

“ He is my physician ; I cannot very well discourage him. 
He has never spoken a word to me of love. I cannot refuse 
his flowers, or decline to ride or walk with him, without giv- 
ing him pain. I am very grateful to him for what he has 
done. What can I do, Eugene ? ” 

“ If you do not love him, you ought not to encourage 
him.” 

“ I do not dislike him ; and I cannot decline his atten- 
tions. If he asks me to walk, it is for my health ; if he asks 
me to ride, it is because a ride will benefit my health. He 
has done nothing which any one might not do for a sick 
friend.” 

“ Of course you expect him to make some progress.” 

“What do you think I am, Eugene?” demanded she, 
impatiently. “ I expect nothing. I do not dislike him ; 
that is all I can say.” 

“Julia, Dick Birch says that Dr. Bilks is an artful, cun- 
ning villain.” 

“ I do not think any better of Dick for saying so,” replied 
Julia, indignantly. 

“ Dick honestly believes it.” 

“ He must not expect me to believe it.” 

“You used to think that what Dick said was law and 
gospel.” 


26* 


3o6 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ He did not use to say such things as that.” 

‘‘Julia, Dick is going to leave Poppleton ■— never to 
return, he says.” 

“Of course he has good reasons for going.” 

“ Do you condemn him, Julia?” 

“ Far from it ! I am sorry for him. I should not think he 
would go away while everybody doubts his integrity.” 

“Julia, have you lost all your regard for Dick?” 

“ No, Eugene.” 

“ Which do you like best — him or Dr. Bilks?” 

“ I cannot answer such questions. I don’t know. I always 
liked Dick very much. I looked upon him as my best friend, 
as well as yours. After his confessions on the stand, I thought 
it best that we should be less intimate. It seems that Dick 
thought so himself, for I have not seen him since.” 

“ The best evidence in the world of his noble and generous 
nature ! He loved you too well even to subject you to any 
invidious remark. He suffers himself to save you from an- 
noyance.” 

“ Poor fellow ! ” 

“ Dr. Bilks is near you all the time, while Dick is self- 
banished from your presence. But, Julia, you must not 
encourage Dr. Bilks.” 

“ Must not?” 

“ Of course I mean you ought not to do so — at least for 
the present.” 

“ I do not mean to encourage him. I am not a beau- 
hunter.” 

“ Do not commit yourself, either in word or deed, until 
this mystery has been solved ; until we know whether Dick 
or the doctor, or both, or neither, is the scoundrel. There is 
something wrong somewhere. I do not know where. I am 
completely befogged and bewildered. Like yourself, I can- 
not condemn cither of them. Both are my friends ; but one 
of them must be wrong.” 

“ Which, Eugene ? ” 


JULIA HUNGERFORD. 


307 


“ I don’t know.” 

“ You have an opinion.” 

“ There is much that I cannot explain on both sides. Let 
us wait.” 

“ Certainly we shall wait ; we cannot do otherwise.” 

“ But, Julia, you must check the doctor.” 

“ I see nothing to check.” 

Julia could not even answer to herself whether she loved 
Dr. Bilks or Dick. Both of them were friendly, both agree- 
able. In a comparison of the characters of the two gentle- 
men, the advantage was in Dick’s favor ; but her gratitude 
to the doctor for his kindness and devotion during her sick- 
ness more than offset the other’s advantage. She did not 
think of a husband, save in the abstract ; if she had, perhaps 
she would have considered one as eligible as the other, and 
would have been prepared to accept him who spoke first. 
She did not yet love either, though both were lovable. 
With one so fair, so young, so accomplished, love could not 
exist without its complement. A loving look, a sweet word, 
a pressure of the hand, would have developed the treasures 
of her affection. She waited, unconsciously, for these to- 
kens ; if Dick had given them, probably he would have 
been accepted ; and the same was true of Dr. Bilks. 

Julia made no promises ; they seemed unnecessary to her. 
Perhaps she knew less of her own heart than others knew 
of it. She was not hungering and thirsting for a husband. 
Fortune had been over lavish to her, and she was too much 
enamoured of Pine Hill, too much devoted to her mother and 
her brother, to think of leaving them without the strongest 
of provocations. Probably she expected to be a wife some 
time ; but she regarded a husband as she did the airs of 
heaven, that came unbought and unsought. She thought 
that he who was to be her all-in-all must be the gift of God, 
in some special manner, and she floated on the tide, a crea- 
ture of fate and circumstances. She could not possibly 


3oS 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


marry one she did not love, and she waited unresistingly for 
her heart to speak her destiny. 

Eugene drove down to the Port again, after he had, as he 
believed, made a proper use of Dick’s solemn warning. He 
was very nervous, uneasy, perplexed, and anxious, as a man 
in prison when life and hope are without its walls. He 
wanted the truth, which should enable him to decide between 
his two friends, now doubly necessary for Julia’s sake as well 
as his own. If he could not satisfy himself, he might com- 
fort Dick, and enable him to wait with patience till the final 
judgment could be pronounced. 

He drove up to the hotel. Dick had gone — had taken 
his trunk, and left with no present intention of returning. 
Where he had gone no one knew ; the man who had driven 
him to Summerville had not yet returned. When he did 
return, Eugene hastened to pursue his friend, and win him 
back. Late in the evening he returned to Pine Hill. Dick 
was fleeing even from him. 


POPPLETON GOSPEL. 


3oq 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

POPPLETON GOSPEL. 

' I 'HE long summer and part of the autumn wore heavily 
away to Ross Kingman, within the walls of the county 
jail, before his trial took place. The grand jury had found 
a true bill against him for the murder of Eliot Buckstone ; 
and he waited hopefully for the time when a jury of twelve 
men should justify him for the deed he had done. 

The months wore away less heavily at Pine Hill, though 
the Hungerfords were not without their trials and anxiety. 
Millions of money could not purchase exemption from the 
common lot of humanity. A hundred thousand in the Pop- 
pleton Bank, and the same sum invested in stocks and real 
estate, did not banish a single care from the mind of Eugene. 
He loved and feared, he hoped and desponded, like the 
poor man who fed his children by his daily labor. The loss 
of Dick Birch, even for a time, was a severe trial to him, in 
connection with the doubt and uncertainty which environed 
the name and reputation of his friend. 

Dr. Bilks still came often to Pine Hill ; still sunned him- 
self in the smiles of Julia. He loved her ; but he made no 
progress. The solemn warning of Dick Birch had not been 
in vain ; and when the enthusiastic wooer found himself 
ready to speak tenderly and confidentially on the subject 
nearest to his heart, Julia darted away from him. It so hap- 
pened that he was rarely alone with her ; never, except in 
the house or the garden. If the doctor proposed a ride, she 
instantly ordered the carriage, and either Eugene or her 


310 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

mother was always sure to be invited. If they could not go, 
Julia did not feel like riding. She did not discourage his 
attentions ; she only checked them. There was no unkind- 
ness on her part, and apparently no undue caution. By 
some of those expedients always within the reach of a wo- 
man, the doctor was invariably repressed, the decisive mo- 
ment was deferred, and he was not permitted to speak of 
the love which warmed his heart. But the doctor still 
hoped. He had only been checked, not defeated. Day 
after day he resolved to “ propose,” — and he did not lack 
the courage to do it, — but these provoking impediments 
always prevented him from taking the important step. 

Dr. Bilks had no reason to suppose that obstacles were 
intentionally thrown in his way. Julia was always kind. 
As she had said herself, she did not dislike him ; and with- 
out the warning she had received, she would have permitted 
events to take their natural course. Julia was herself. She 
practised no arts, stooped to no hypocrisy. What she felt she 
did not wholly conceal. As Dick Birch came no more to 
Pine Hill, as she hardly heard from him, she had come to 
look upon the doctor as the man of her choice, though a 
man deferred simply for prudential reasons. He was unex- 
ceptionable to her ; and if the current of love had not begun 
to flow, it was only because it was dammed up in the parent 
fountain. Dick Birch was absent, but not forgotten ; and 
she could not help comparing the characters and manners of 
the two men who loved her. She did not absolutely love 
either of them ; for one seemed to be a check upon the 
other. Her strong mind asserted itself. 

Eugene now managed his own business ; and it gave him 
sufficient occupation to save him from the pangs of ennuu 
About once a week he went to The Great Bell ; but he 
spoke not of love to Mary Kingman, though his heart still 
longed to have all restraint removed. He saw her as often 
as he called, and she always blushed and smiled in his 
presenccr 


POPPLETON GOSPEL. 


3 ” 


Captain Kingman was still confined to the house, and 
hobbled on crutches every day from his room to the kitchen. 
He was feeble and helpless. The family had no means of 
support, and debt pressed heavily upon them. Eugene, as 
a pretence, paid Ross’s salary to Mrs. Kingman every month, 
which vt^as sufficient to keep the family comfortable. The 
farm was mortgaged ; and as no interest was paid, the cred- 
‘tor became importunate for his* dues. He threatened to 
lake possession. Mrs. Kingman told Eugene of this, with 
tears in her eyes ; for the threat implied ruin to her. He 
paid the principal and the interest; indeed, he discharged 
every debt he could find against the Kingmans. 

Captain Kingman did nothing but moan and groan from 
morning to night. He was paying the penalty of his trans- 
gressions. He did not concern himself about family affairs. 
He had nothing to say about Ross or the murder ; nothing 
about his debts ; nothing about Mary. He was stupefied by 
his pains and his misfortunes. He had lost all interest in his 
family and his business. Years of dissipation had made 
him an imbecile. Mrs. Kingman told him nothing of what 
Eugene had done ; and as far as possible, at his request, slie 
kept it from Mary, whose sensitive nature was outraged by 
dependence. 

But, poor girl ! she knew that Eugene paid the expenses 
of the family without any equivalent, and she had struggled 
to resist this accepting of his charity. She was helpless at 
first ; but when her strength was fully restored, she determined 
that the family should no longer live upon his bounty, how- 
ever freely and gladly it was bestowed. She procured from 
her step-mother a full account of all sums Eugene had ex- 
pended, so far as Mrs. Kingman knew them, and imposed 
it upon herself, as a solemn obligation, to pay back every 
dollar. 

Undoubtedly this resolution gave her some comfort, and 
partially satisfied the promptings of her pride. She fully 
intended to carry out this design, and believed that, in time, 


112 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

she could earn money enough to do so. She was not con- 
tent merely to have a purpose, but she immediately set 
about its execution. There was a vacancy in one of the 
schools, and she attempted to obtain the situation. She 
applied for the place ; and one of the committee, knowing 
her to be a superior teacher, gave her considerable encour- 
agement. His associates were ministers of the gospel. 
They were horrified at the very suggestion of appointing 
“ such a person.” 

Mary was repulsed. She called upon her minister to aid 
her. He was willing to do so, if he could. He could not. 
He did not believe she ought to think of teaching school ; 
it was not proper for her to do so. She had made a mis- 
take ; she must stifter for it, as all must. Society must pro- 
tect itself even from the appearance of sin. It was right 
that it should do so. It was hard for her, who had really 
done no wrong, to be banished from the presence of the 
good and the upright ; but it was necessary. She must sub- 
mit. It was the way of the world. Even bad men frowned 
upon a woman’s sin, and turned from her, in society, when 
the stain of suspicion hung about her. It was well ; for 
virtue was to her the pearl of great price, and it must be 
guarded even by men’s prejudices. 

Mary was terrified by her own sin. She fled from her 
minister almost with the feeling that God had ceased to love 
her; that the demons had taken possession of her soul. 
She examined her own heart ; she prayed for wisdom and 
for strength; but with all her searching, she could not be- 
lieve she was so lost and depraved as the fiat of the pruden- 
tial committee, and even of her own minister, had declared 
her to be. But her own clergyman had not accused her of 
sin or wrong ; he had only said that society must protect it- 
self at her expense. She had been deceived, mocked, cruelly 
wronged. At the worst, she had only been imprudent, she 
reflected ; but she had always been true to her womanly 
instinct of purity. Why should she be spurned? It was 


POPPLETON GOSPEL. 313 

hard ; but it was the wa}^ of the world, and she could not 
resist it. 

She applied for a school in a neighboring town One 
laughed ; another frowned ; all refused. The minister was 
right, in point of fact: society would protect itself at her 
expense. She could not obtain a situation to teach. She 
gave up the point in despair. She asked for work in one of 
the factories It was given to her simply because the agent, 
who was anxious to conciliate Eugene, dared not refuse her. 
The operatives, with one voice, protested. Some of them 
wxre sinners ; but these protested louder than the others. 
It was a shame to admit “ such a persoti ” into the mills with 
respectable girls. They threatened to stop work ; and Mar} 
fled in terror from the tempest she had created. 

Eugene heard of all these things, and he asked if there 
was a God in heaven. He was indignant, almost furious. 
He went to Mary ; and in a tumult of woe, she told him the 
truth. Then, more than ever before, he wished to fold her 
in his arms, make her his own, and bravely breast the storm 
of worldliness that would beat against them both. He went 
to the mill agent, and reproached him for permitting Mary 
to be driven from the factory by a mere prejudice. She had 
done no wrong ; she was more free from stain than half who 
had fled from her presence. The agent knew it. He could 
not help it. If Mary would stay, he would protect her. 
There was a principle at stake, and Mary went back to the 
mill. The girls withdrew in a body. Eugene paid the 
damages of the suspension. Other girls came, and there 
was a tempest. Society was protecting itself. Money, for 
once, fought the battle of the oppressed. It conquered in 
the end. Half the girls returned. They could not contend 
against money. Indignant fathers and brothers threatened 
to break down the dam, to burn the mid, to disable the 
wheel ; and the great building was guarded day and night 
like an arsenal in revolutionary days. Again the factory 
worked all its spindles. 

27 


314 the way of the world. 

Those in the mill who came in contact with Mary began 
to love her. She was a true Christian ; not after the forms 
of the church alone, but after the law of God and Christ, 
which she had transcribed .upon her own heart. One wlio 
worked by her side was taken down with a violent fever. 
She was far away from home ; and Mary tended tiie loom 
all day, and watched all night with the sick one. 

‘‘ Truly, this girl with a bad reputation is better than any 
of us,” said the girls in the mill. 

Mary became pale and feeble herself. Eugene heard of 
it. She had lived down her bad name. Those who knew 
her loved her ; and there was not an evil-minded man that 
dared look disrespectfully upon her. She visited the sick and 
the sorrowing ; she spoke true and holy words to the erring ; 
she was the friend of all who needed a friend. 

Eugene went to her. He insisted that she should leave 
the mill, and nurse the sick girl, if she could not trust this 
sacred duty to another. 

Mary, you shall be a missionary among the poor and 
suffering. I shall build a chapel for the poor, where they 
may go without money and without price. John Porter, 
whom I knew and loved in college, shall come and preach 
to them ; and you shall help gather his flock. I shall pay 
him and you a salary. Will you take the position ? ” 

“ I cannot take money from you.” 

“ False pride ! ” replied he. “ I shall pay another, if not 
you.” 

“ Better another than me.” 

“ I know of no one who will do so well as you.*' 

Long and faithfully he pleaded with her to become his 
missionary before she would accept a salaried position ; but 
she consented. The chapel was commenced ; but the har- 
vest, ripe for the reapers, did not wait for a building. John 
Porter came — came to preach practical Christianity. Both 
he and Mary visited the poor with provisions, clothing, and 
fuel in their train. More cheap tenement houses were built 


POPPLETON GOSPEL. 


313 

The poor were well lodged, well clothed, well fed ; the 
chapel was filled with attentive hearers ; but more than all, — 
for it is the foundation of all true self-respect, — the poor 
were taught to be independent. It was found that the model 
houses were good, paying property, and prudent men, foi 
their own interest, helped to carry out Eugene’s idea. Men 
and women, who had received gifts from the chapel treasury, 
insisted upon paying their full value ; for with well-filled 
stomachs and well-covered bodies came a self-respect and a 
self-reliance which refused charity. 

But, in spite of all that was done, Eugene did not dream 
of founding a Utopia. He did not succeed in building up 
a colony of saints and heroes. There were still hundreds 
of men and women who could hardly be anything but vaga- 
bonds. The foreign population, though much improved in 
condition, still obstinately clung to dirt, and rags, and bad 
whiskey ; paradise and Poppleton were still dissimilar. 

When Eugene had bought the land, and staked out the 
chapel. Father McCafferty, the Catholic priest of the Mills, 
called upon him in high dudgeon, and squarely accused him 
of attempting to convert his flock to the “ abominable re- 
ligion.” 

“ Not at all. Father McCafterty,” replied Eugene, calmly. 

‘‘You are building a chapel for them,” added the indig- 
nant priest. “ Of what use is it to them if you build houses 
for the poor, feed, and clothe, and warm them, if you steal 
away their souls ? ” 

“ I assure you, sir, I have no designs upon their souls.” 

“What else can it mean? The chapel is for the pool ; 
and that means my people. Sure you have done everything 
for them, and you are stealing them away from me.” 

“ I have no desire to convert them from anything but dirt, 
rags, and vile liquor.” 

“ God bless you for that ; if you will only stop there. But 
your chapel and your Sunday school will rob them of their 
souls. I have no church — nothing but an old shed; and 


3i6 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


some of them may be led into a nice place like that you 
mean to build.” 

“ Father McCafferty, it makes no difference to me what 
these people believe, if they only have a religion that will 
save their souls, and keep them from vice and sin.” 

That is what their religion is for,” said the priest, warm- 
ly. “ I have no means to work with.” 

“ Do you want a church ? ” 

“ I do, badly.” 

“ You shall have one. What will it cost? ” 

“ Six thousand dollars,” replied the astonished priest. 

“ Build your church, and I will pay all the bills.” 

“ God bless your honor.” 

Father McCafferty was a true Catholic, but none the less 
a true Christian. If he placed more stress on mere forms 
than those of a different faith, it was because he believed 
they were vital. Eugene thought that any Christian faith 
would save a man from sin, if it was earnestly believed and 
faithfully followed. It made no difference to him what other 
men’s theological opinions were, if the holders of them were 
only earnest and faithful. 

So the Catholic Church was built, and Father McCaffer- 
ty was a happy man, and joined Eugene in good works, 
while he refused even to utter the Lord’s Prayer in worship 
with him. The millionnaire went a step farther. The 
priest, at his suggestion, imported half a dozen Sisters of 
Charity into Poppleton, and Eugene filled up the exchequer 
from which these self-sacrificing ladies drew for the needy 
ones. Under the tuition of the good father and the be- 
nevolent sisters, the people of the Catholic parish struck a 
terrible blow at the demons of filth, rags, and bad whiskey. 
But yet, with all that had been done, paradise and Popple- 
ton were still leagues apart. 

Thus passed away the summer and the autumn, till the 
first Tuesday in November, the day appointed for the trial 
of Ross Kingman. As Julia insisted upon being the com- 


POPPLETON GOSPEL. 


317 


panion of Mary, the carriage was ordered for them, and 
Eugene and Dr. Bilks occupied the front seat. On theii 
arrival, the vehicle was left at the hotel, and the ladies, 
attended by Eugene, walked over to the jail to see Ross, 
where an awkward meeting took place, for Dick Birch was 
there, preparing himself for the trial. 

Dick blushed up to his eyes ; so did Julia. A friendly 
greeting followed, and she retreated as soon as possible. 

“ Dick, I am glad to see you again,” said Eugene, as he 
grasped the offered hand. 

“ Equally glad am I,” replied Dick. 

“ Where have you been these four months?” 

“ At work. I have written to you half a dozen times.” 

You have ; but you didn’t say anything in your letters.” 

“ I thought it was best to let old matters slumber for 
a while. I have been as busy as a bee. But you must 
excuse me now, for I have two or three points to settle 
before the trial comes on.” 

Ross was cheerful, and seemed to have no fears of the 
result. Mary had been to see him several times during his 
long confinement, and Eugene had been careful to supply 
him with everything he needed, which the rules of the jail 
would permit. As Dick Birch wished to confer with the 
prisoner, the party left him, and went to the court-house, 
where Dr. Bilks had already preceded them. 

“ Have 3mu seen Mr. Birch? They say he is here,” said 
the doctor to Eugene. 

“ I saw him at the jail.” 

“ How does he seem?” 

“ Remarkably cheerful.” 

“What has he been about?” asked the doctor, rathei 
nervously. 

“ I don’t know ; he says he has been at work all the 
time.” 

“ What has he been doing? ” 

27 * 


3i8 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“He does not say; but I suppose he has been at work 
upon his own case.” 

“ His own case, it seems to me, was pretty effectually set- 
tled the last time we were here.” 

Dr. Bilks did not appear to be at all satisfied with Dick’s 
labors during his absence, or rather with the fact that he had 
been at work. Perhaps he thought it was very unreasonable 
of Dick, after he had been so fully condemned by the pop- 
ular voice, to resist the conclusion that he was a liar and a 
perjurer. 

The court came in ; the prisoner was placed in the dock, 
and after the usual difficulty in impanelling a jury to try a 
capital case, the trial commenced. We do not propose to 
follow it through its tedious length. Dr. Bilks was the first 
witness called in the afternoon. He took his place upon 
the stand with an easy assurance, and Mr. Lowe, the gov- 
ernment attorney, drew from him all the evidence he wanted, 
substantially as it had been given before, with the additional 
fact that he had seen and recognized Mr. Birch, in company 
with Buckstone. The doctor was as tender of his friend, as he 
had been before ; and he appeared like a man who was anx- 
ious for nothing but to tell the truth. Mr. Lowe, entirely 
satisfied with the witness, turned him over to the defence for 
cross-examination. 

“ Your name, if you please,” said Dick, to whom this duty 
was again intrusted. 

“ Dr. Bilks.” 

“Your name in full, if you please.” 

“ Thomas L. Bilks,” replied the doctor, with a smile. 

“ What is your middle name?” 

The doctor hesitated, and looked slightly embarrassed. 

“ Lenox,” he added, at last. 

“Thomas Lenox Bilks,” repeated the lawyer. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Is that your name? ” demanded Dick, sharply. 

“ That is my name,” 


POPPLETON GOSPEL. 


319 

“ Are you willing to swear that that is your name ? ” con- 
tinued the thorny lawyer, rising from hifi chair, and gazing 
earnestly into his face. 

Mr. Lowe interfered; even the judges, feeling that the 
lawyer meant to browbeat the witness, suggested that he was 
under oath. To the astonishment of everybody, Dick do- 
dared that the doctor had not given his true name. 

“ You take your oath that your name is Thomas Lenox 
Bilks — do you?” 

“ I do.” 

The doctor was pale as a sheet. He trembled, and his 
attempt to smile and seem indifferent was an utter failure. 
The people in the court-room were breathless with interest. 

The lawyer pressed him on this point for some time, until 
the court interfered. 

“ May it please the court, the witness has not given his 
true name. We shall be able to prove, if necessary, that 
he is here under an assumed character, that his evidence is 
utterly unreliable and wortliless,” said Dick, turning to the 
judges ; and he was permitted to proceed. 

“ Once more. Dr. Bilks, what is your real name?” 

The doctor was silent. It was evident that Dick Birch 
had not worked for nothing during his absence. 

“ Answer me, if you please,” said Dick, sternly. 

Dr. Bilks looked around the room, as if to measure the full 
extent of his difficulty. He saw some one, apparently, whose 
presence startled him. 

“ My real name is Thomas Lynch,” replied the doctor, as 
the cold sweat stood upon his forehead. 

“ I thought so,” replied Dick, triumphantly, as he glanced 
at Hungerford to see the effect of this astonishing reve- 
lation. 

Eugene actually leaped to his feet with surprise, for that 
name was the key to everything which had been dark and 
mysterious. 


320 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“Why did you change your name, Dr. Lynch?” asked 
Dick. 

“ Because the name of Lynch does not suit me. It was 
an injury to me in my practice. I have been taken for an 
Irishman so many times that I assumed my mother’s maiden 
name.” 

“ Was that the only reason? ” 

“ It was.” 

“ Is your mother living?” 

“ She is not.” 

“What was the name of her last husband? ” 

Dr. Lynch, as we must hereafter call him, was not dis- 
posed to answer this question. The court thought it was 
unnecessary ; and Dick explained what he intended to 
prove. 

“ The name of your mother’s last husband, if you 
please ? ” repeated Dick. 

“John Hungerford,” replied the doctor, desperately, as he 
glanced at a woman in the witness seats, who was a stran* 
ger to most of the people present at the trial. 


DR. LYNCH. 


•^21 


CPIAPTER XXV 

DR. LYNCH. 

T~\R. LYNCH struggled against a bad appearance. He 
had turned pale ; he was shaking in the knees ; he did 
not look his torturer in the face. He knew that all these 
things were against him. He had seen the woman in the 
witness seats. Her presence alone had induced him to tell 
the truth. She had been John Hungerford’s housekeeper, 
and she knew Tam Lynch as well as she knew the three 
eminent trustees who had daily visited the millionnaire while 
he was in the throes of making his will. 

By the time the doctor was ready to answer the question 
relating to his mother’s second husband, he had measured 
his surroundings ; he had weighed Mrs. Black, the house- 
keeper, and had apparently satisfied himself that she could 
not turn the scale wholly against him. He had sufficiently 
explained the reason for adopting a new name — a simple 
and very satisfactory reason, it seemed to him. Dr. Lynch 
had decided what course to pursue, and the decision had to 
a great extent restored his self-possession. He looked around 
the room, and smiled. It was a rather ghastly smile, and 
the doctor would have done better not to attempt it. 

“ Dr. Lynch, had you any personal interest in the marriage 
of Mr. Eugene Hungerford?” continued Dick, when the 
sensation attending the last answer of the witness had sub- 
sided. 

“ None whatever,” replie ' the doctor, promptly, and with 


322 




THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


an elasticity in his tones which indicated his belief that all 
his troubles on the stand were ended. 

“ If Mr. Hungerford should not marry, what effect would 
it have upon you ? ” 

“ I suppose I should come into possession of one sixth 
part of the late John Hungerford’s property,” answered the 
doctor, with a cheerful look. 

“ Have you, at any time, done anything to prevent his 
marriage — with Miss Kingman, for instance?” 

“ On the contrary, I have always advised him to marry 
her, and done what I could to remove certain objections on 
the part of his mother and his sister.” 

This was certainly true, and there was a strong reaction, 
even in the mind of Eugene, in favor of the doctor. If the 
witness had been selfishly bent on obtaining the fortune, he 
would certainly have done what he could to prevent the 
marriage, which might, and probably would, vitiate his indi- 
vidual claims. The face of the doctor now wore an expres- 
sion of triumph. He felt that he had nailed to the wall the 
insinuation implied in the lawyer’s question. 

The doctor had apparently made a point, and Dick had 
lost one. 

The cross-examination was continued, and extended over 
about the same ground as on the former occasion. The 
witness testified to the old story about the baby, and the 
woman from Newington. He had paid them no money ; 
he had done nothing to cover up the truth. Other witnesses 
were called ; but nothing essentially difterent from the evi- 
dence given at the examination was elicited ; and at six 
o’clock the court adjourned. 

Dr. Lynch, in spite of the point he had made, and in spite 
of the bold face he had finally assumed on the stand, was 
nervous and agitated. It was clear to him that he was 
walking among traps and pitfalls ; that he was liable to be 
tripped up at any moment. He could form no conjecture 


DR. LYNCH. 323 

of what was coming, for Dick Birch had carefully masked 
his battery, and did not indicate what he intended to do. 

“ Well, Julia, Dick is beginning to unveil the machine he 
has been building,’’ said Eugene, when the court adjourned. 

“ Do you believe that Dr. Bilks is Tom Lynch? ” 

‘ He swears to the fact.” 

“ What does it all mean ? ” 

“ Don’t you see? ” 

“ I can see, but I cannot believe.” 

Dick Birch joined them. 

“ Dick, Julia can see, but she cannot believe,” said Eugene. 

“ He who runs may read,” laughed Dick, in the best of 
humor. “ Let us walk over to the hotel.” 

“ Mr. Birch,” asked Julia, timidly, “ do you attribute any 
bad motives to Dr. Bilks ? ” 

“ To Dr. Lynch?” 

“ Dr. Lynch, if that is his name.” 

“I do ; the very worst of motives. In the course of this 
trial, if my testimony is not ruled out, I shall prove enough 
to satisfy all what the doctor is.” 

“ Don’t be too hard upon him, Dick,” added Julia, with a 
little of her old playfulness towards him. 

“ I shall exhibit nothing but the truth.” 

“ What is the truth, Dick? ” asked she. 

“ I would rather have others tell it.” 

“ I am under very great obligations to the doctor -r I owe 
my life to him,” added Julia. “ I hope you will spare him 
as much as you can.” 

“ I cannot spare him at all ; or rather he has not spared 
himself. If he will speak the truth, I will be as gentle with 
liim as possible.” 

“ That is all I ask.” 

If you will excuse me. Miss Hungerford, I think you 
had better remain at home to-morrow.” 

“ Why, Mr. Birch?” 

“ You may hear something which will not be pleasant. 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


324 

As a friend of the doctor, I think you had better not heat 
any more of the trial.” 

“ I thank you for your consideration. I will stay at home. 
But I would rather know the worst. Your words are really 
quite terrible to me. Won’t you tell me what you think the 
doctor’s motives were in coming to Poppleton ? ” pleaded 
Julia, who could not resist the painful and shocking conclu- 
sion that the demigod of Pine Hill was the cold, calculating 
villain which Dick had described him to be. 

‘‘ I am still under the shadow. Miss Hungerford,” replied 
Dick. 

“ Nonsense ! ” exclaimed Eugene. “ I protest against 
your shadows. I have never ceased to trust you.” 

“ But your sister has.” 

“ I have not, Mr. Birch. I confess that I was vexed at 
what you said in relation to me in the court. That is all.” 

“ I could have made Dr. Lynch say all that I said,” added 
Dick, blushing and confused. “ Nothing but regard for your 
feelings prevented me from doing so.” 

“ You were very kind,” replied Julia, coloring crimson. 

“ By the way, Hungerford, Lowe told me last night how 
he happened to press me so hard on my relations with your 
family,” continued Dick, trying to laugh off his confusion. 

“ How was it? ” 

“ The doctor suggested the idea to him.” 

“ Impossible ! ” 

‘‘ Lowe says so ; he begins to see through the doctor, 
which was the reason why he told me of a fact he was asked 
to conceal. By the way, Ross Kingman has not a 
friend than Lowe in the county, though, of course, he must 
do his duty.” 

“ The doctor suggested it?” repeated Julia. 

“ Thnt is but a trifle, Miss Hungerford, compared with 
other things he has done.” 

“You have not answeied my question yet, Mr. Biich 
What were the doctor’s motives ? ” 


DR. LYNCH. 325 

“ In my opinion he intended to obtain one third of John 
Hungerford’s money ! ” 

‘‘One third!” 

“ One sixth in his own right, one sixth in yours,” replied 
Dick. 

“ But he advised Eugene to marry Mary Kingman ,* and 
he overcame all my mother’s and my own objections to the 
marriage.” 

Mary had gone to the jail with Dr. Lynch to see Ross, or, 
of course, this could not have been said. 

“ I do not know by what means he intended to effect his 
purpose ; but I am satisfied that I have correctly stated his 
design.” 

“ It is quite impossible, Mr. Birch,” persisted Julia. “ He 
has labored to bring about the very event which would de- 
prive him of his own share of my uncle’s property.” 

Dick could not answer this obstinate objection to his belief. 
Here was an obstacle to his theory which all his investiga- 
tions could not explain away. So there was a saving ele- 
ment which still redeemed the doctor from condemnation. 
Julia went home almost convinced that Dick Birch was again 
mistaken, and the crown was not yet wrested from the head 
of the demigod. 

The carriage was driven over to the jail for Mary. Dr. 
Lynch had important business, which would detain him in 
Summerville for an hour, but he would call at Pine Hill on 
his return. Eugene offered to wait, but the doctor would 
ride back with a friend. The party left him, and Dr. Lynch 
hastened to the hotel, where they had just parted with Dick 
Birch. He wished to see the lawyer, and he did see him. 
Might he beg the favor of half an hour’s private conversa- 
tion with Dick, who, feeling that he was now on the winning 
side, was magnanimous enough to grant it. They took a 
private parlor up stairs. 

“ You have begun to thorn me again, Mr. Birch,” the 
doctor said, with a smile. 

28 


326 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


‘‘ No ; the truth begins to thorn you/* 

“ We used to be friends, Mr. Birch/* 

“ That was before I knew you/* 

“You are harsh.’* 

“ I am only just.** 

“ What do you intend to prove?’* 

“ That’s my business.” 

“ You understand my position in Poppleton? ** 

“ Perfectly.” 

“You have already, placed me in an awkward situat.on/* 
“ You placed yourself there.” 

“ I took my mother’s name, instead of my father’s, for the 
reason I mentioned. That is not a very heinous sin ; but it 
will create very strong prejudices against me.” 

“ I know it.” 

“ Groundless prejudices.” 

“ No.” 

“ Why should I suffer for so trivial an offence? My name 
wrongs no man. Lynch is an Irish name.” 

“ It has been naturalized.” 

“ The name injured me in my profession, and I was about 
to take the proper legal steps to have it changed,” whined 
the doctor. 

“ Why did you come to Poppleton, Dr. Lynch ? ” 
“Why?” 

“ That’s the question.” 

“ To practise my profession, of course.” 

“ You were doing remarkably well in Dayton.” 
“Dayton?” 

The doctor was quite sure he had never mentioned the 
name of this place to the lawyer, or any other person in 
Poppleton. 

“ Dayton, Ohio,” added Dick. “ You had a large practice 
there, and everybody was surprised when you aban- 
doned it.” 

“ The climate did not agree with my health,” replied the 


DR. LYNCH. 327 

doctor, with a ghastly smile. “ I find it necessary to keep 
near the salt water.” 

Precisely so ; and you chose Poppleton.” 

“ I liked the place. I went there, as you are aware, to 
spend a month in the summer. The locality suited me, and 
I decided to settle.” 

“ Of course your decision had nothing to do with the fact 
that Eugene Hungerford lived there?” 

“ None.” 

“Wasn’t it a little singular you never mentioned the cir 
cumstance that you were one of John Hungerford’s contingent 
legatees ? ” 

“ I deemed it best not to mention the fact ; it might have 
bred suspicion, and deprived me of the good will of Mr. 
Himgerford and the family. I have done what I could to 
serve them.” 

“ You have done well for them ; you saved Julia’s life. Dr. 
Lynch. She is lost to me, but I am unselfish enough to be 
grateful for this, though you may have done it for your own 
purposes.” 

“ It was not for me to save her ; God only could do that.” 

“ None of that, if you please. When the devil quotes 
Scripture, I am not one of his congregation. No cant.” 

“ I only intended to say that I did what any physician 
should have done. No human hand could have saved her ; 
though I think her life was preserved by careful nursing, 
and, if you please, skilful medical attendance.” 

“ I believe it ; and I am willing to grant that she owes her 
.ife to you.” 

“ But you say I labored for my own purposes.” 

“ In a word, you intend to marry her.” 

“ I have never spoken to her on that subject. I will not 
deny that I cherish a very warm regard for her ; and herein 
I have crossed your path, and excited your wrath against me.” 

“ I have nothing to say upon that point. The lady shall 
speak for herself. On account of what you have done for 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


'^28 

her, I am disposed to let you down as easily as possible, 
consistently with truth and justice.” 

“ Let me down? ” said the doctor, curiously. 

“ If you will confess your agency in the events which 
have transpired in connection with the murder of Buckstone, 
I will do all that I can to save you from disagreeable conse- 
quences, and even to protect your good name,” said Dick, in 
a serious tone. 

“ Confess?” 

“Why do you repeat my words after me? You know 
what I mean?” 

“ I have nothing to confess,” replied Dr. Lynch ; but 
awful forebodings were apparently creeping through his 
mind. 

“ If you have not, let us waste no more time.” 

Dick rose from his chair, as if to terminate the interview. 

“What could I have to confess?” 

“ First, that you sent for Buckstone, and that you went 
over to the island with him.” 

“ But I did not.” 

“ We waste time ; I have business with Mr. Darling 
to-night. You must excuse me if I decline to say anything 
more about it.” 

“ Don’t be harsh, Mr. Birch.” 

“ I am not harsh. Confess, and I will spare you as much 
as I can.” 

“ I have nothing to confess. You are laboring under some 
mistake, Mr. Birch.” 

“ Perhaps I am,” sneered Dick. “ To-morrow will show 
whether I am or not.” 

“ To-morrow? ” 

“ Don’t repeat my words, doctor.” 

“ You threaten me.” 

“ Did I seek this interview, or did you? ” 

“ I did, of course, and I am grateful to you for your kind- 
ness in granting it.” 


DR. LYNCH. 3:29 

What do you want of me?” demanded Dick, im- 
patiently. 

“ I wished merely to explain the matter about the name.” 

“ Well, you have done so.” 

“ But that opened other matters.” 

“ I do not wish to say another word. I prefer to let the 
trial take its course. For your sake, I proposed that you 
should make a clean breast of it.” 

“ Why for my sake? ” 

“ Because we may be able to temper the facts so that they 
will not bear so hard upon you.” 

“What facts?” 

“ All the facts.” ' 

“Mr. Birch, you assume that I have not told the truth.” 

“ I distinctly say that you have not.” 

“ That I have perjured myself? ” 

“ You have.” 

“ Very well, Mr. Birch ; and I thank you for your candor 
in stating just what you mean. Now, grant for a moment 
that I have been base enough to falsify the truth — assume it 
for a moment.” 

“ Assume it for a moment,” repeated Dick, with a signifi- 
cant smile. 

“ Should you expect a man who had made and sworn 
to certain statements, to retract them, merely upon your 
invitation to do so?” 

“ Not unless he were to obtain some advantage by 
doing so.” 

“ Precisely, Mr. Birch. Now, assuming still that I have 
not told the truth, what advantage should I gain by re- 
tracting?” 

“ Now I understand you, Dr. Lynch ; and I am ready to 
meet your views.” 

“ Of course we only assume that I have not told the 
truth.” 

“ Of course ; but I shall take the liberty to answer your 


T«E WAY OP THE WORLD. 


33 ^ 

question just as though it were an actual state of things. 
What are you to gain?” 

“ What should I gain, if the case were real, instead of 
supposed ? ” 

“ Not much, perhaps. I must be vindicated ; therefore 
you must confess, on the stand, that you were the person 
witli Buckstone just before he was killed.” 

‘‘ That would ruin me.” 

“ It will ruin me if you don’t. If you were there for a 
good purpose, it will not injure you any more than it has me.” 

“ I should gain nothing by this.” 

“ If you tell the whole truth, voluntarily, you will gain 
much in the estimation of honest men. And the lawyers 
will spare you. All this matter is really foreign to Ross 
Kingman’s case. It has nothing whatever to do with it.” 

“ Why was it brought in, then?” 

“ Because the person with Buckstone is an important 
witness. If I had testified that I was the man, I should 
simply have been required to tell what I knew of the murder. 
If I had known nothing, that would have been the end. If 
you were the stranger, you can tell what you know about it. 
If it implicates you in the murder, you need not criminate 
yourself.” 

“We are only assuming a case,” interposed the doctor. 

“ Certainly — if you please.” 

“ What questions would be asked of me?” 

“ Were you the person with Buckstone?” 

“ I was,” replied the doctor, with a sickly smile. “ Let 
us suppose we are in court ; I am on the stand, and you are 
Mr. Lowe.” 

“ Did you see the murder committed? ” 

“ I did not.” 

“ Did you know a murder had been committed?” 

“ I did. Of course you understand, Mr. Birch, that we 
are merely supposing a case.” 

“What did you do?” 


DR. LYNCH. 


331 

“ I went down to the cliff in the boat, and found the 
body.” 

“ Was life extinct?” 

“ It was.” 

“ What did you do with the body ? ” 

“ I took it back to the beach.” 

“ Did you remove the head?” 

“I did.” 

Dick Birch began to be very much excited, when the 
doctor again called his attention to the fact that they were 
mo'ely supposing a case. 

“ Why did you remove the head? ” continued Dick. 

“ I wanted it for dissection. One of my patients was sick 
with brain fever, and I wished to study the case with a real 
brain.” 

“ Did you dissect it?” 

“ I did.” 

“Where?” 

“ In my office, that night.” 

“ Where is the head now?” 

“ I have the skull.” 

“ Who was your patient? ” 

“Mr. John Dunbar.” 

So far the case was real, for such a person had been sick 
with brain fever at the time. 

“ What did you do with the body?” 

“ Sunk it in the channel, as the witnesses have described.” 

“ For what purpose?” 

“ That I might reclaim it for dissection. I spoke about a 
‘ subject * to Dr. White, and invited him to assist me ; but I 
had no opportunity to recover the body before it was found 
by the sheriff.” 

“When did you make the acquaintance of Mr. Buck- 
stone ? ” 

“ I never saw him till after dark on the night he was 
murdered.” 


332 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ Did you send for him?” 

“ I did.” 

“ Did you write the letter signed Richard Birch?” 

“ I did.” 

“ Where ’did you get the old envelope? ” 

“Am I to answer all these questions in court?” de* 
manded the doctor. 

“ No, not all of them ; in fact, not many of them.” 

“ Why do you put them, then ? ” 

“ Because I wish to know how the affair was managed.” 

“ We are only supposing a case,” added Dr. Lynch, with 
a hideous grin. 

“ Very well ; let us go on supposing the case a little 
longer. Where did you get the old envelope?” 

“ It is hardly necessary to be so minute.” 

“ Quite necessary ; answer, if you please.” 

“ I found it on the body.” 

“ Where did you write the letter with the signature of Mr. 
Birch ? ” 

“ In my office. I went up with the head, and wrote the 
letter. On my return, I threw away the original letter, and 
put the one I had written in its place.” 

“ Then you intended that Mr. Birch should be com- 
promised?” 

“ I did.” 

“You intended to recover the body, but you prepared it 
to be found by others.” 

“ I was afraid it would be found.” 

“ Why did you intend to implicate Mr. Birch?” 

“ There was good reason why he should be with Buck- 
stone — there was none to explain why I should be his 
companion.” 

“ Why did you send for him?” 

“ I will not answer another question ! ” exclaimed Dr. 
Lynch. “ I have been a fool.” 

“ We were only supposing a case.” 


DR. LYNCH. 333 

“ We have supposed enough, until you can satisfy me 
what I am to gain by supposing more.” 

“Are you willing to answer the questions up to the point 
where you secured the body for dissection.” 

“ No ; the friends of Buckstone, if he has any, would 
murder me for what I did.” 

“ II was in the cause of humane science. For aught we 
know, you saved Mr. Dunbar’s life by dissecting that head.” 

“ I think I did ; but a man’s friends would not consider 
this a good excuse for dissecting his brain.” 

“ Perhaps you are right ; and as no truth or principle 
will be sacrificed, we had better keep these facts out of the 
case. Besides, what doctors do in the cause of science ^nd 
humanity is hardly a fit theme for public comment. In a 
great murder case, within my knowledge, some of the 
strongest evidence in regard to the identification of the 
victim was withheld to spare the feelings of a witness, and 
to avoid low remarks in public. It is a safe precedent, and 
I think Mr. Lowe will consent to keep this evidence out 
of court, especially as it proves nothing. It was wrong in 
you to mutilate the corpse ; but to expose you would do a 
greater wrong by lacerating the feelings of the dead man’s 
friends, if they should hear of it, and by outraging the deli- 
cacy of the community generally. Pass this by ; we will 
arrange it by and by.” 

“Is the suppression of this evidence all I am to gain?” 
asked the doctor. 

“ No ; here is the deposition of Sandy McGuire,” replied 
Dick, taking the document from his pocket. “ I shall rebut 
) our evidence with it, if necessary, and prove that ‘ Dr. 
Bilks’s baby ’ was a myth. You will save this.” 

“ My God ! ” groaned the doctor. 

“ You will be proved to be a liar in all this story.” 

‘ Where did you get this? ” 

“ It was done in due form, you perceive, beiore a magis- 
trate, and has the seal of a commissioner for this state in New 


334 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


York upon it. Sandy McGuire spent and lost all the money 
you paid him, and then got into a fight, killed his man, and 
was sent to the state prison for life. I was in New York 
city at the time, looking up Buckstone’s affairs. I went t > 
him ; did what I could for him. As his money was all g‘)ac. 
he had no incentive to keep your secret any longer. Here ii 
the whole truth in this paper; and I can support it with 
other witnesses. Unless you make it necessary, the docu- 
ment need not be used.” 

Dr. Lynch paced the room in violent agitation. This 
time he was defeated. It was useless to contend. Dick had 
him in his toils. 

“ One thing more, doctor ; I have the original letter which 
I wrote to Buckstone, and which you threw away upon the 
beach.” 

“ I threw it overboard with a stone in it.” 

“ It was found on the rocks, by a witness who will testify 
to the fact, if called upon.” 

“ Mr. Birch, I am in your power. Do with me as you 
will,” groaned the doctor. “ I will confess whatever you 
say.” 

“ Confess the truth. I have three or four letters written by 
you to Buckstone.” 

“ Spare me, if you can ! Let me leave the town at once.” 

“ No ; now sit down, and write a full confession of your 
agency in the affair ; tell the whole truth ; and I pledge you 
my honor, that, beyond the simple facts necessary to vindi- 
cate my good name, none of it shall be made public.” 

Dr. Lynch sat down at the table, and commenced writing, 
and Dick went down to his supper. 


TUB PBNITBNT DEMIGOD. 


335 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE PENITENT DEMIGOD. 

D r. lynch wrote his confession. It contained the 
substance of his answers to Dick’s questions ; the sup- 
posed had become the actual. The doctor was diligent and 
thoughtful in his labor ; but his face had entirely lost that 
aspect of slavish fear it had worn when Dick was present. 
His expression was that of low cunning ; and one who 
looked upon him now would have regarded him as the con- 
queror, instead of the conquered. He finished the document, 
glanced at it, laid down the pen, smiled, rubbed his hands, 
rose frdm his chair, walked the room like a cabinet minister 
who has just elaborated a very satisfactory state paper. 
Through apparent defeat the doctor was evidently winning 
his most decisive victory. 

The author of the confession read it over, inserted a few 
words accidentally omitted, punctuated it as carefully as 
though it were to appear in the Poppleton Mercury, ana 
then coolly awaited the return of his persecutor. 

•‘Vindicate him! Yes, I’ll vindicate’ him,” muttered tin- 
doctor, as he sat gazing at the burning sticks in the fireplace. 
“ I can afford to do that. I can give the inch for the sake 
of the ell.” 

Dick Birch finished his supper, and returned to the room. 
The moment the door opened. Dr. I^ynch looked as timid 
and abject as when his tormentor had left him. He handed 
the confession to the lawyer, who read it through with as 


336 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


much care as though it had been a deed of some valuable 
estate. 

“ What do you think of it, Mr. Birch ? ” asked the doctor, 
with much apparent emotion. 

“ It is all very well as far as it goes,” replied Dick, in 
business-like tones. 

“ I have told all I know, Mr. Birch,” pleaded Dr. Lynch. 

“ You have written out a very full history of your opera- 
tions on the night in question ; and so far, your paper is 
entirely satisfactory ; but you have not told why you came to 
Poppleton.” 

“ I came only to practise my profession. I had no other 
object in view.” 

“ You had,” said Dick, bluntly. 

“ Upon my honor I had not.” 

“ Very well ; pass that for the present, but it will come 
up again. Why did you send for Buckstone?” 

“ My motives were good,” whined the culprit. 

“ No doubt of that ; all your motives were good,” sneered 
Dick. 

“You will remember that I was the medical attendant of 
Mary Kingman.” 

“ You were ; go on.” 

“ Possibly I may have been, to some extent, influenced by 
selfish motives.” 

“ Possibly ! ” 

“ But I assure you, Mr. Birch, that my principal object 
was to redeem Miss Kingman from the misery to which she 
was reduced. I was afraid she would die on my hands.” 

“ Did you tell her that you had written to Buckstone?” 

“ I did not dare to raise any hopes till there was some pros- 
pect of their being realized.” 

“ You were very kind, doctor. You suggested that it was 
barely possible you might have been influenced to some 
extent by selfish motives. What selfish motives had you ? ” 

“Mr, Birch, I am no hypocrite, however much I have 


THE PENITENT DEMTGOD. 


337 


erred in this upleasant business. I will not deny that half 
a million of dollars was not a disagreeable prospect to con- 
template ; ” and the doctor added one of his most ghostly 
grins to this speech. ‘‘ Doubtless you have felt the same 
yourself.” 

“ I never contemplated any such prospect,” replied Dick, 
his cheek flushing as he thought what motives might be 
attributed to him in making love to Julia. 

“ Doubtless you loved Miss Hungerford ; perhaps you still 
love her, Mr. Birch. You were honest and sincere in your 
love, but at the same time you could have no possible objec- 
tion to her being the possessor of half a million of money.” 

“ Silence, sir ! I will listen to none of your insinu- 
ations.” 

“ O, I didn’t intend anything disagreeable,” added the 
doctor, humbly. 

“ Then you acknowledge that you sent for Buckstone to 
forward your own views ? ” 

“ Partly for that ; mainly for Miss Kingman’s sake.” 

“ Put that in your confession.” 

The doctor complied, with some objections. 

“ Why did you wish to prove that I was the person with 
Buckstone ? ” 

“ I thought it would injure you less than me. I was led 
from one thing to another, in order to make good my first 
statements.” 

The doctor added to the confession till Dick was satisfied. 

“ Now I will call in two persons to witness your sig- 
nature.” 

“ Then I am ruined ! ” 

“ Not at all : they need not even know the contents of 
this paper.” 

“ But what use do you intend to make of the document, 
Mr. Birch?” 

“ If you keep your promise in the court-room to-morrow, 
no use whatever.” 

29 


33S 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ Will you give it to me then ? ” 

“ No ; but I will promise that no one shall see jt while 
you behave like an honest, upright man.” 

“ I understand you, Mr. Birch,” replied Dr. Lynch, gloom- 
ily. “ You mean to hold it over me, as a guaranty that I 
sl\a'l do as you bid me.” 

“ I will make no unfair use of the paper.” 

1 am helpless, Mr. Birch ; you can do with me as you 
please.” 

“ I can ; but no advantage shall be taken of you. I will 
call in Mr. Lowe and Mr. Darling as witnesses.” 

The paper was duly signed and witnessed. Dick put it in 
his pocket, and felt that he had the enemy within his grasp ; 
as though he had conquered the serpent of evil, and had him 
in chains at his feet. 

Dr. Lynch did not think so. 

“ You haven’t been to supper, doctor,” said Dick, when 
the witnesses had departed, as they did without asking a 
question. 

“ I have no appetite.” 

“ I am not surprised.” 

“ I feel like a ruined man.” 

“ Dr. Lynch, you have wronged me as one man never 
wronged another.” 

“ I confess it. I am sorry for it. I wiQ do all I can to 
atone for my error.” 

“ That is all I ask.” 

“ I will leave Poppleton at once.” 

“ You need not.” 

“ I will go to Pine Hill no more,” added the doctor, sig- 
nificantly. 

“ Go there as often as you please.” 

“ The family feel that they are under some obligations tj) 
me ; Julia feels so.” 

“ The} are. She is.” 


THE PENITENT DEMIGOD. 339 

“ I will keep out of your way,” replied Dr. Lynch, more 
plainly. 

“ I do not wish you to do so. Though you have wronged 
me, though you have perjured yourself, though you have 
suborned witnesses, I will not injure you. I forgive you.” 

“You are more forbearing than I deserve.” 

“ You are liable to be sent to the state prison for your 
crimes, but I will not proceed against you.” 

“Mr. Birch, I do not deserve this kindness at your 
hands.” 

“ Sin no more ; that is all I ask of you.” 

“ Mr. Birch, wretch as I am proved to be, I believe you 
think me worse than I am. I am not the villain you take 
me to be. I did love Julia Hungerford : I do now. I am 
not worthy of her.” 

“ That’s true.” 

“ But my love purified my soul. If I was selfish when 1 
wronged you, I have repented in dust and ashes. When I 
watched day and night at the bedside of Julia, there was not 
a selfish thought in my heart. Her wasted form, her glaz- 
ing eyes, the fear that she would soon die, drove every con- 
sideration of self from my mind. I loved her ; and if, with- 
out ruining my reputation and driving me from her pres- 
ence, I could have confessed my sin to the world, and 
redeemed your good name, I would gladly have done it. I 
forgot her half million, and I forgot my own. Eugene loved 
Mary Kingman ; I saw that he could never be happy with- 
out her. I advised him to marry her : I removed all objec- 
tions from the minds of Julia and her mother. Was this 
selfish ? ” 

“ I am told that you did all this,*” replied Dick ; and the 
fact, fully established, was so utterly inconsistent with the 
doctor’s course that the lawyer could not explain it. 

“ You perceive that I voluntarily labored to shut out my- 
self and Julia, at the same time, from the fortune which it 
had befo-e been my ambition to obtain. If ever a man loved 


540 the way of the world. 

a woman truly, and for her own sake alone, I so loved 
Julia.” 

Dick v/as generous; he was magnanimous. To him 
Julia was more than human, and it was not strange that the 
lOve of her should have conquered the doctor’s selfishness. 
To him this view was reasonable ; and on no othe r ground 
could he explain the conduct of Dr. Lynch in promoting the 
marriage of Eugene. But the character of the doctor, as 
laid bare to him, was so base that he could not resist a 
strong tendency to scepticism. 

“Of course Julia can now be no more to me,” continued 
Dr. Lynch, gloomily. “ I resign her to one who is more 
worthy of her.” 

“ She is not yours to resign,” replied Dick, indignantly. 

“ I will keep out of your way, I mean.” 

“You need not ; you shall not. It is for her sake, more 
than your own, that I have spared you the pain of a public 
exposure of all your iniquities. I ask only enough to vindi- 
cate myself. If, after you have done me this justice, she will 
permit you to come into her presence, make the most of 
your opportunity. Between you and me, or any one else, 
Julia shall be the arbiter. If she loves you, marry her. 
That is all I have to say. You will be at the court-house at 
nine o’clock to-morrow morning ; if you are not there, I will 
publish your confession in the newspapers.” 

“ I will be there, without fail.” 

The doctor took his hat, and left the room. In spite of 
his meagre appetite, he ate a hearty supper, and then 
returned to Poppleton with a neighbor, who had been wait- 
ing two hours for him. 

Dick Birch sat in his chair before the fire, thinking of 
what had just transpired. He was full of thoughts. Possi- 
bly he was troubled with some doubts in regard to what he 
had done. Had he compounded a felony? Had he bar- 
gained to shield a scoundrel from the penalty of his crimes? 


THE PENITENT DEMIGOD. 34I 

Had his desire to “ whitewash ” the doctor for Julia’s sake 
led him to do a wrong to the community? 

When the serpent is beneath your heel, crush him ! 

Dick did not do so. 

But the doctor was to retract his evidence ; was virtuall}; 
to confess his perjury, and his subornation of witnesses. 
The lawyer insisted that he should do this. The crimes 
were to be actually confessed, but not in detail. They were 
simply not to be set forth in their most revolting shape. The 
only thing to be concealed was the disposition of the body. 
Was it wrong to conceal this? The body was illegally 
dissected ; but would not a greater injury result from the 
disclosure of these revolting details than fronx theti; suppres- 
sion ? Dick was not quite satisfied. 

The lawyer had a client to defend. Ross Kingman’s life 
was in peril. Though the prisoner had nothing to do with 
the body, his cause might be prejudiced by the exposure of 
the sickening particulars. 

Why had Dick Birch been merciful to his apparent vic- 
tim? The strongest incentive has not yet appeared. The 
thought of crushing Dr. Lynch that a rivai in his love affair 
might be removed, was intolerable. 

“Julia, I have disposed of my rival,” he fancied himself 
saying to her. “ I have vindicated my character. The doc- 
tor is a villain, as I told you ; and I am a saint, as you might 
have known. Here I am. Take me ! ” 

Dick jumped out of his chair, ashamed of the very thought. 
He loved Julia, but he could not think of her on these terms. 
He was unselfish, magnanimous. He preferred that the doc- 
tor should not suffer on his account ; that the way might not 
be opened to him through the disgrace of his rival. It was 
mean to ’take the prize on such terms. He desired to stand 
before her as the doctor’s equal, with no advantage of any 
kind. If Julia did not love him above all others, she would 
be no treasure to him. Dr. Lynch had taken advantage of 
him ; had conspired against his good name ; but Dick would 


342 


THE WA'V! OF THE WORLD. 


accept no more concession than just enough to restore his 
reputation. If it had been possible, he would have spared 
the doctor even this ; if, consistently with his own standing 
in the eyes of his friends and the community, he could have 
permitted his rival still to be the demigod of Pine Hill and 
of Poppleton, it would have suited him better. 

He scorned to crush a rival ; his nature, in its nobility and 
magnanimity, cried out against such a proceeding. Base, 
low-minded men might do it; he could not. He did not 
consider that, if it was not his duty to crush the rival, it 
was his duty to crush the evil-doer. 

The serpent was not crushed. 

Dr. Lynch stopped at Pine Hill, on his return to Popple- 
ton. He was admitted by Parkinson and shown to the 
library. What could he say for himself? 

Eugene was not particularly cordial in his greeting. The 
doctor did not expect him to be. 

“ Mr. Hungerford, I have come here for the last time. I 
shall go out of your house before I am kicked out,” the 
doctor began. 

“ Dr. Lynch, your name explains your position.” 

“ No, sir ; it does not.” 

The doctor did not often speak so decidedly, and his man- 
ner attracted Eugene’s attention. 

“ It explains why you came here.” 

“ Mr. Hungerford, I have a confession to make, before I 
depart. To-morrow morning I shall go upon the stand, 
and publicly acknowledge that I have wronged Mr. 
Birch. I shall tell the simple truth. Justice to him and to 
you requires this at my hands. It would have been done 
before, if I had had the courage to do it, for my error has 
caused me more suffering than it has him — infinitely more. 
I bow my head with shame.” 

When a man repents, who can frown upon him? Eugene 
could not. Neither he nor Dick Birch was what the world 


THE PENITENT DEMIGOD. '^43 

calls a shrewd man. Penitence, confession, a desire to bs true 
and manly, would wipe out any offence. 

“ I am sorry-you have been led into error.” 

“ I repent it in sackcloth and ashes ; I did repent it months 
since.” 

Dr. Lynch explained why he had sent for Biickstone, for 
what purpose lie had gone with him to The Great Bell ; in 
fi3t, he told all that he had written out in his confession. 
Eugene shuddered when he spoke of the body, and wondered 
how even a doctor could cut oft' the head, and dissect the 
brain of one with whom, a few hours before, he had walked 
and talked. 

“ Buckstone was dead, Mr. Huhgerford,” said Dr. Lynch, 
solemnly. “ If his tenantless clay could serve the living, I 
deemed it my duty to put it to that use. I believe the 
knowledge thus gained enabled me to save, the life of Mr. 
Dunbar, one of the best and most useful men in Poppleton. 
I grant that it was wrong for me to take the body for the 
purpose of dissection ; but it would have been a greater 
wrong to let Mr. Dunbar die.” 

“ Were you not fully informed before in regard to the 
brain?” 

“ I should have been ; but I was not. There was a cer- 
tain point which was quite dark to me. The brain of Buck- 
stone made it clear.” 

“ How came Dick’s handkerchief and cigar in the boat?” 

“ I put them there. I confess with shame and humiliation 
tliat I intended to wrong your friend.” 

Eugene cast a loathing glance at him. 

“ You despise me, as I despise myself. If I had repented 
to-day, for the first time, I should not have dared to come 
into your presence. Will you hear my story from the begin- 
ning?” 

“ I will hear whatever you wish to say. I shall not scorn 
V^ou any more than you seem to scorn yourself.” 

‘‘You could not. When I went to Baltimore, after the 


344 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


death of Mr. Hungerford, I saw Mr. Loring, one of tne 
trustees. I learned — with what di‘=iappointment I need not 
describe — that only twenty thousand dollars had been left to 
me. I was vexed and indignant, for I had endeavored to be 
like a son to my step-father. I expected at least one third of 
his fortune. Mr. Loring described your family. He spoke 
of Julia as a lovely and accomplished woman. I asked my- 
self why I might not marry her.’’ 

Eugene looked contemptuous. 

“ I went back to Dayton, and, as soon as possible, wound 
up my business, and sold out my practice. I wished the 
trustees to lose sight of me. A friend of mine wrote to Mr. 
Loring, at my desire, on business ; to make inquiries in 
regard to me, and added that Dr. Lynch was going to ruin, 
and had actually spent most of his little fortune in three 
months. I knew the trustees would ask no questions about 
me after this. 

“ I came to Poppleton. You had gone to Europe. I 
used every effort to establish myself, and succeeded beyond 
my most sanguine expectations. How I stand you know. 
My practice is larger than it was in Dayton, and is worth, 
at least, four thousand dollars a year. Just before your 
return, I was called to Mary Kingman. Mr. Birch had 
told me her story. I pitied her ; but she was in my wa}^ 
It was indispensable to the success of my plans that she 
should be reunited to Buckstone. I attempted to do this, as 
I told you, fearful that Mr. Birch, who never had a selfish 
thought, would fail to do it. 

“ I had already satisfied myself that Mr. Birch was de- 
voted to Julia; he was in my way. T liked him so well, 
and he ..ad been so good a friend to me, that I could no* 
patiently think of injuring him. It was the vilest, most 
wicked thing I ever did in my life, bad as I have been.” 

Dr. Lynch wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Eu- 
gene thought there was hope of one who could so strongly 
condemn himself. It was true repentance. 


THE PENITENT DEMIGOD. 


.^^45 

“ L did not mean to injure Mr. Birch till my own safety 
seemed to reqhire it. When Buckstone was killed, I knew 
the fact that he had a companion would be discovered 
through Ross. You know the rest of it. Dick was sus- 
pected, was generally condemned by the people. He aban- 
doned Pine Hill, as I was sure he would. I went away for 
a week.’^ 

‘‘ In order to avoid seeing Mr. Lester?” said Eugene. 

“ Partly, not wholly. On my return I found Julia sick. 
She had a settled fever — the worst kind of typhoid. I had 
serious doubts if she could survive the attack. If she had 
been my mother or my sister, I could not have been more 
interested. I was not selfish then. I thought of nothing 
but my fair patient. God knows that not a mercenary 
thought crossed my mind in those hours I watched her. I 
wept and I prayed for her. When I was not here, I was 
studying the case.” 

We all feel that we owe her life to you, doctor,” added 
Eugene, as he recalled the weary days and nights they had 
watched with fear and trembling. 

“ She passed the crisis ; she was out of danger. She 
smiled upon me. O, Mr. Hungerford, I cannot tell you 
what I felt then ! I loved her! From that moment I have 
not ceased to love her. That love purified my soul, and 
sanctified the hope which had been base and unworthy 
before. I was ashamed of the purpose for which I came to 
Poppleton ; I cursed my own soul for the wrong I had done 
Mr. Birch. I repented ; but I had not the courage to con- 
fess my errors, for that would banish me from the presence 
of Julia — drive me in disgrace from the town. When the 
change came over Julia, another change came over me. As 
she warmed back into physical life, I grew into moral and 
spiritual life. Whatever my lot, wherever I go, she will still 
be the saver of my soul. I have done, Mr. Hungerford.” 

The doctor wiped his brow again. He did love Julia 
Hungerford. This was true, whatever else was false. 


34^ THE WAY OF THE WORI.D. 

“ I am sorry you love her, Dr. Lynch.” 

“ I am glad ! ” replied the doctor, exiiltingly. 

“ She may not be willing to see you after what has trans- 
pired.” 

“ I do not expect it. 1 am willing to suffer — I deserve to 
suffer. A lifetime of penitence will not atone for the wrong 
I have done. I love her, and loving her has saved me fruin 
my own vain and wicked ambition.” 

“You loved her for her money — for what might be hers.” 

“ Did I not counsel you to marry Mary Kingman? Did 
I not remove the objections of Julia and your mother? Was 
this selfish? Did I not persuade you to do the very thing 
which would deprive both Julia and myself of the contin- 
gent fortunes ? ” 

“ You did.” 

“ But it matters not now. This is the last time I shall 
enter your house, unless I am called here as a physician : 
in that capacity I will serve you to the utmost of my ability. 
Good night, Mr. Hungerford ; ” and Dr. Lynch moved to- 
wards the door. 

“ I am not quite prepared to adopt your view of this 
unpleasant business, doctor. Whatever you are, and what- 
ever you have done, we are still deeply indebted to you,” 
interposed Eugene. 

“ It is not for me to speak, Mr. Hungerford. I feel that I 
have outraged and insulted you and every other member of 
your family. I have been a base, designing knave. I do 
not ask your forbearance.” 

“ But you shall have it none the less.” 

“ I cannot even ask to be forgiven,” pleaded the doctor, 
humbly, as he still stood, hat in hand, ready to leave. 

“ For myself I can, and do freely forgive you.” 

“ This is more than I deserve.” 

Dr. Lynch threw himself into a chair, and covering his 
face with his handkerchief, actually sobbed. 

Eugene's tender heart could hardly en ^ure this. To see 


THE penitent DEMlGOt). ^47 

a Strong man weep — and that man the skilful physician, 
the demigod of Pine Hill was pitiable in the extreme. 

^ “What does Mr. Birch say to all this?” asked Eugene, 
after the doctor’s woe had partially subsided. 

“ Mr. Birch is noble and generous. He is kind to me 
beyond expression. He forgave me the wrong I did him 
I confessed everything ; I put myself wholly in his hands.” 

“ If Mr. Birch can forgive you, surely we can,” said Eu- 
gene. “ Here is my hand, doctor. We will be as though 
nothing had happened.” 

“ You overwhelm me, Mr. Hungerford,” exclaimed Dr. 
Lynch, in tones broken with emotion. “ I am unworthy to 
take your hand.” 

“ As a man who has done wrong, and truly repented, you 
are worthy of respect and admiration. Not many men have 
the courage to confess their fault.” 

“ It is only tardily that I have done so. Courage was all 
I lacked. The truth has been too mighty for me. Mr. Birch, 
with the truth on his side, has overwhelmed me. I have no 
merit. Mr. Hungerford, you have saved me. I could not 
endure my disgrace. When I left Mr. Birch, it was with 
the intention of ending my miserable life before to-morrow 
morning.” 

“ That would be cowardly.” 

“ If I had not been a coward, I should have done justice 
to Mr. Birch four months ago, when I was convicted in my 
own heart of this foul wrong.” 

“ You will suffer some, doctor, but not much. You have 
disarmed reproach.” 

“ You are too kind, Mr. Hungerford.’ 

“ Come to Pine Hill as before, doctor. You will always 
find friends here.” 

“ How can I hold up my head in the presence of your 
mother and Julia? ” 

Eugene thought he could not; he did not say so. He 
added what he could to console the suffering penitent, and 


348 


THE WAY OP THE WORLD. 


the doctor departed, apparently reconciled to his lot. Julia 
and her mother went into the library when he had gone. 
Eugene explained the position of the demigod. Julia was 
indignant when she heard of his confession ; she pitied him 
when she heard of his penitence and grief. 


THE VERDICT. 


U9 


CHAPTER XXVil. 

THE VERDICT. 

T he court came in on the second day ot the trial. Dr. 

Lynch was present, as he had promised to be. His 
appearance had greatly changed since he went on the stand 
the day before. He looked like a man who had endured a 
lifetime of misery in a single night. His pale face and 
sunken eyes were the emblems of penitence. People were 
prepared by what had occurred on the first day for some 
extraordinary event. The doctor was suffering ; he showed 
it in his looks and in his movements ; the damp of the night 
watch seemed to be clinging to him. Those who saw him 
pitied him. It was sad to see a man so mighty as the popu- 
lar physician fall from his high estate. 

Doubtless Dr. Lynch had suffered intensely ; doubtless he 
had not closed his eyes to sleep during the night ; doubtless 
he had endured untold agonies between the setting and the 
rising of the sun. He was sorry for something ; for what 
has not yet been told. He was certainly in excellent condi- 
tion to appear on the stand as a penitent; he was well 
“ made up ” for this character. 

The doctor was placed upon the stand as soon as the court 
was opened. There was a breathless silence in the room. 
The audience strained their eyes to obtain a glance at the 
face of the witness. People were almost prepared to heai 
him say that he himself had slain Buckstone. That he was 
in Poppleton under an assumed name was enough to excite 
the gravest suspicions. 

30 


350 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ Dr. Lynch, I am informed that you desire to correct 
your testimony as given yesterday,” began the attorney for 
the government. 

“ I do.” 

“What correction do you wish to make?” 

“ So far as my evidence related to Mr. Birch, it was false,” 
replied the witness in quivering tones, hollow and sepul- 
chral. “ I acknowledge, with the utmost shame and with a 
loathing of myself I cannot describe, that I have attempted 
to injure Mr. Birch ; that I have sworn to what I knew to 
be untrue.” 

The fall of a pin could have been heard in the court-room. 
This open, square, and unequivocal confession excited the 
contempt of all honest men, but pity was by far the stronger 
feeling. Some thought the doctor was a fool to confess ; 
others that he need not have said so much ; and fast men 
blamed him for not “ putting it through ” as he had begun : 
but the general sentiment was grief that one standing so 
high in the estimation of the community should have sacri- 
ficed himself. Christian men thought that, great as was the 
wrong he had done, the humiliating atonement he made 
ought to satisfy the sternest lover of justice. 

“ Were you with Mr. Buckstone on the night he was mur- 
dered ? ” continued Mr. Lowe, very gently. 

“ I was.” 

“Was Mr. Birch with him also?” 

“ He was not.” 

“ Did you go to the island with Buckstone?” 

“ I did.” 

“ Did you see the prisoner on that night?” 

“ I did ; Buckstone left me on the beach, and went up :he 
rocks to speak with Ross Kingman. They went off to- 
gether.” 

“ Did you see the murder committed?” 

“ I did not.” 


THE VERDICT. 3^1 

“While you were on the beach were you conscious tiat a 
murder had been committed?^' 

“ I was not.” 

While he was on the beach he certainly was not conscious 
of the fact ; it did not take place until after he had left the 
beach. 

“ Have you any knowledge whatever of the murder except 
what you obtained from Ross Kingman ? ” 

“ I have not.” 

“ Did you see the blow struck ? Did you hear any angry 
words ? ” 

“ I did not.” 

“ That is all ; the witness is yours, Mr. Darling,” said the 
government attorney. 

Mr. Lowe deemed it his duty to prove that a murder had 
been committed, and that it had been committed by the pris- 
oner. This was the issue which the jury were to try, and 
the government had nothing to do with the question in dis- 
pute between Dr. Lynch and Mr. Birch. The latter had 
been vindicated, and the truth, so far as it related to the 
murderer, had been fully elicited. •• 

Mr. Darling asked a few questions of the witness, and he 
was permitted to retire. Of course, Dr. Lynch was in very 
bad odor, and everybody suddenly knew that Dick Birch had 
always been a just and upright man. 

The trial proceeded. The fact that Mary Kingman had 
been grievously wronged, outraged, insulted, was made 
apparent. This was the terrible provocation of the prisoner. 
Mr. Darling made the most eloquent plea of his life. He 
pictured the condition of the deserted girl, who had believed 
she was a wife ; the strong affection that existed between the 
prisoner and his sister. She had no friend, no protector, 
but this brother. Her father had absolutely driven her from 
his roof in his drunken frenzy. To whom could she look for 
justice but to this brother? 

He depicted her sick room, with Ross watching night and 


3^2 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


day by her side, loving and pitying her, and nursing his ven* 
geance against her betrayer. He had gone to New York, 
plucked her from the poverty and disgrace to which she had 
been reduced by her unnatural protector. He had brought 
lier home. He held in his fraternal arms the wreck of the 
beloved sister, wasted by disease, shattered by her mental suf- 
fering, disgraced, defiled, cast oft'. It was not right that the 
prisoner should slay the villain who had desolated the fond 
hopes of this loved one ; but if ever man was justified in 
wielding the bolt of vengeance, Ross Kingman was. 

He reviewed the evidence, drawing from it every item 
which tended to show the sad condition of Mary, the strong 
provocation of Ross. Mr. Lowe followed with legal defini- 
tions, distinctions, and discriminations. He showed what 
murder was ; what was English law, what was French law, 
what was American law. Having done enough to satisfy 
himself, and the bar, and the bench, that he was a sound 
lawyer, he contented himself with arguing very lucidly that 
a murder had been committed, and that the prisoner had 
committed it. As no one doubted this, not much was gained 
by his plea. 

In the matter of the provocation, Mr. Lowe was more use- 
ful to the jury. A sufficient provocation sometimes reduced 
the killing from murder to manslaughter ; and this was the 
answer to the presumed malice which was the essential ele- 
ment in murder (i Russ. Cr. 440) ; but the killing, except 
in self-defence, could not be absolutely justified by law, 
common or biatute. He argued that if the prisoner was not 
guilty of murder, he was surely guilty of manslaughter. 
The jury could not avoid this conclusion. 

The presiding justice charged the jury. He defined mur- 
der, manslaughter, homicide, and pointed out the legal dis- 
tinctions, so that the old farmers were as clear as noonday 
on the subject. He told them what malice was, what provo- 
cations were legally recognized. He convinced them that 
the court had a full and earnest conviction of the enormity 


THE VERDICT. 


353 


of Buckstone’s offence ; but society must be protected from 
the dagger of the assassin. He pointed out the exceeding 
great peril of justifying a man in taking the law into his own 
hands to resent real or fancied injuries. 

At five o’clock in the afternoon the jury went out to con- 
sider their verdict. Mary Kingman fainted before the door 
had closed behind them. The words of the stern and impar- 
tial judge, who had spoken for the bench, had filled her with 
awe and terror. Eugene lifted her up, and bore her to an 
adjoining room : but she recovered, and the words of assur- 
ance spoken by Dick Birch enabled her to return to the 
court-room in season to hear the verdict. 

The jury came in. They were grave men, impressed by 
the heavy responsibility which rested upon them, and noth- 
ing could be gleaned from their faces. They had been out 
less than an hour, and it was plain that there had been no 
serious disagreement among them. The court-room was 
hushed as the twelve men stood up, and the usual formalities 
were solemnly disposed of. 

“Mr. Foreman, have you agreed upon your verdict?” 
asked the clerk. 

“ We have.” 

“ What say you — is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not 
guilty?” 

“ Not guilty ! ” 

Though this result had been expected, it was not the less 
welcome. A storm of applause followed the rendering of 
the verdict, which all the hammering and shouting of the 
sheriff could not silence for a moment. The people had 
spoken through the jury, and now they spoke for themselves. 

Ross Kingman was discharged. The court adjourned, 
and he rushed to Mary, clasped her in his arms, and both 
wept tears of joy. Ross was a notable. Hundreds took 
him by the hand, and congratulated him. Dr. Lynch was 
one of the number. When he had done so; he left the court, 
and di :ve home. 


354 


THE WA\ OF THE WORLD. 


Mary and Ross, Eugene and Dick, occupied the Pine Hill 
carriage. Ross asked a great many questions about Dr. 
Lynch and the astounding event of the morning. To his 
surprise, both of his friends spoke kindly and charitably of 
the erring man. He had done wrong ; he had publicly 
acknowledged his error, and they had forgiven him. 

The party were warmly welcomed at Pine Hill by Julia 
and her mother. The exciting events of the day were nar- 
rated, and Eugene volunteered to accompany Mary to her 
home. He had no opportunity to speak to her of the subject 
nearest to his heart until they reached the house on The Great 
Bell. He was not willing to waste a moment. Mary was 
dearer to him than ever. Her missionary labors had more 
clearly exhibited her character to him. 

“ Mary, the trial is over, and Ross is free,^’ said he, while 
they were seated in the parlor, her brother being with the 
rest of the family in the kitchen. 

“ He is ; and how much we owe to you and Mr. Birch I 
need not remind you,” replied she. 

“ You need not, Mary. I have done for him what I would 
have done for my own brother. But I did not remind you 
that the trial was over in order to speak of what has been 
done by any one. You remember your promise.” 

“ I do,” she replied, much embarrassed. 

“ I have faithfully kept mine. I have not spoken to you 
on the subject 'which was always claiming a word in my 
heart.” 

“ You have not, Mr. Hungerford.” 

“ Why do you speak so coldly and formally to me ? ” 

“ I dare not speak otherwise.” 

“ Mary, all my happiness in this world is bound up in 
you. If you do not love me, Mary, say so.” 

“ Eugene, I do love you ! ” 

She wept in spite of all her struggles to repress her tears. 

“Then why do you hesitate? Say that you will be my 
wife.” 


THE VEIIDICT. 


355 


‘‘ No ; I cannot say it.” 

“ Then you do not love me.” 

“It is because I love you — because I respect and rever- 
ence you — that I cannot be your wife. My conscience smites 
me when I think of dragging you down from your lofty 
height to the plane of shame and disgrace upon which I 
dwell.” 

“ Mary, you are true and good. I care not what men say. 
Be mine ; that is all I ask.” 

“ I cannot consent to injure you so much.” 

“ I fought your battle at the mill ; let me fight it in the 
great world.” 

“ Do not ask me yet.” 

“ When will you answer me, Mary? I shall not be happy 
until you do.” 

“ To-morrow — next week ; but not now.” 

“ Let it be to-morrow.” 

“ Perhaps to-morrow.” 

There was a knock at the outside door. Dr. Lynch was 
admitted. He expressed his surprise at finding Mr. Hunger- 
ford there ; if he had expected to meet him, he should have 
deferred his visit. 

“ I will retire. Dr. Lynch, if you have business with Miss 
Kingman.” 

“ I have business with Mrs. Buckstone, but it is a matter 
in which you are interested, Mr. Hungerford. You observe 
that I call our mutual friend Mrs. Buckstone. I do so pur- 
posely, as my errand will explain,” continued the doctor. 

“ Of course you do not call her so without good reasons.” 

“ Certainly not. I intend to leave town to-morrow moriv 
ing, and it is necessary that I should dispose of this mat- 
ter at once.” 

“ Why do you leave town, doctor?” asked Eugene, sur 
prised at this announcement. 

“ I think it better for me to do so.” 

“ But you intend to return? “ 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


356 


“ That will depend upon circumstances.” 

“ What circumstances? ” 

“ If the people of Poppleton can be as generous towards 
me as you and Mr. Birch have been, I should be glad to 
remain, and prove the sincerity of my contrition.” 

“ Doubtless they will be.” 

“ Let the future determine,” added the doctor, as he took 
a package of papers from his pocket. “ Mrs. Buckstone, if 
I have wronged others, I have not wronged you. I think 1 
have been a true friend to you.” 

“You have, doctor; you have always been very kind 
to me.” 

“ As you have doubtless heard, I sent for Buckstone to 
come here. I felt that it was necessary, in order to preserve 
your life and health, that your wounds should be healed. I 
have endeavored to heal them. When it was no longer pos- 
sible for you to become the wife of Buckstone, — which was 
the purpose I had in view when I sent for him, — I endeav- 
ored to give you the means of proving the marriage which 
had already taken place. Mr. Hungerford, what was your 
opinion of the legality of that union ? ” 

“ I had no doubt whatever in regard to its legality, if it 
could be proved. By the humane laws of many of the 
states, a mock marriage is impossible,” replied Eugene. “ If 
either of the parties intend to marry, the mandage is legal. 
The difficulty in this case was, that we could obtain no evi- 
dence, and Buckstone repudiated it.” 

“ Mrs. Buckstone, here is your marriage certificate,” 
added the doctor, handing her the important document. 

“Impossible!” exclaimed Eugene. “Dick and myscK 
have used every effort to obtain proof of the marriage. We 
could not obtain a particle of evidence.” 

“ After the death of Buckstone it was an easier matter,” 
replied Dr. Lynch. “ I found Doming, the artist. He is a 
miserable fellow. At first he refused to speak a word, but 
I finally induced him to tel. the whole truth. The marriage 


THE VERDICT. 


357 


solemnized by a broken-down minister ; he is a black- 
smith now, but preaches when he can find a pulpit. He 
was fully authorized to marry parties, though, in my opin- 
ion, a ten dollar bill would persuade him to marry a man 
to his own grandmother. The marriage was duly record- 
ed. Doming, his wife, and a servant girl were witnesses.” 

‘ ’ When was it recorded ? ” 

“ Not till after I had seen the minister. Here is the city 
clerk’s certificate of the fact, and here is the affidavit of 
Doming and his wife, and of the servant, duly sealed and 
attested for use in any court in the state.” 

“ But you obtained all these papers last summer?” 

“ I did.” 

“We never heard of them before. Why did you not 
exhibit them ? ” 

“ And let Ross be hanged for killing his brother-in-law, 
instead of being acquitted? Perhaps I was wrong, but this 
was the reason.” 

“ I will not pretend to say whether you were right or 
wrong.” 

“ The facts have been presented to the court and the jury 
just as they appeared to Ross and his sister. Buckstone 
denied his marriage, and deserted his wife. What Ross did 
was done with this understanding of the hicts. It might 
have prejudiced the jury if they had known what was appar- 
ent to no one until long after the killing had been done. 
For this reason I kept the papers to myself until after the 
trial.” 

“ I am very grateful to you, doctor, for what you have 
done. It is a greater joy to me to know that I was truly a 
wife than it would be to possess all the world can give.” 

“ I knew it would be. These papers are the best prescrip- 
tion I can give for- your bodily ailments.” 

There could be no doubt in regard to the validity of the 
papers or the marriage, and Eugene was as grateful as Mary. 
The doctor took his leave as humbly as though he had not 


358 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


done a good deed — if he had done one ; whether he had or 
not, so far as he was concerned, did not yet appear. So far 
as Mary was concerned, he had given back to her the repu- 
tation she had lost. She was happier in the possession of 
these papers than she would have been if they were the 
titles to an empire. 

“You can speak now, Mary,” said Eugene, when the 
doctor had gone. 

“ Let it be to-morrow, Eugene,” replied she, with the 
sweetest smile he had seen upon her face since the death of 
John Hungerford. 

“ As you will, dearest,” added he, taking her hand. “ I 
can wait, because your smile tells me what your answer 
will be.” 

He kissed her blushing cheek. It was the first time since 
they had been scholars together. The clouds appeared sud- 
denly to have rolled away. They were happy ; both forgot 
the past. 

“ I hope Dr. Bilks, or Dr. Lynch, will not leave Popple- 
ton,” said she. “ I am sure he is a good man at heart. He 
could not have done so many kind things if he had not 
been.” 

“ He has many good traits of character. Of course I can 
never regard him as I did before ; that would be impos- 
sible.” 

“ Self-interest and ambition often lead men astray. He 
has done very wrong.” 

“ And we will freely forgive him.” 

Eugene returned to Pine Hill. Though it was late, DIcl« 
Birch and the family were still in the sitting-room. They 
had been talking of Dr. Lynch, but they%ad unanimously 
forgiven him. 

“ You are late, Hungerford,” said Dick, with a smile. 

“ I was detained.” 

“ No doubt of it,” laughed Dick. “ A fellow is very apt 


THE VERDICT. 359 

to be detained under certain circumstances. I hope you are 
not committed.” 

“ I have been committed from the beginning. I intend 
that Mary shall be my wife ; and the sooner the better.” 

“ Of course I have nothing to say.” 

“Are you still opposed?” 

“ I amV’ 

Eugene exhibited Mary’s papers, which he had brought 
w ith him for this purpose. There was not a legal doubt 
expressed in regard to them, and all were pleased to have 
the appearance of wrong removed from Mary, especially 
since it had become a settled fact that she was to be the mis- 
tress of the Pine Hill mansion. For some reason, not apparent 
to others, Dick Birch did not seem to be so much interested 
in the marriage papers as might have been expected. He 
said but little about them, and avoided the subject ; but no 
one doubted that he was as much pleased with her vindica- 
tion as Eugene himself. 

“Now, Dick, what have you been about all summer?” 
asked Eugene, after the ladies had retired. 

“ I have been following Dr. Bilks that was. I went first 
to the medical colleges in Philadelphia ; there was no such 
name as Bilks on the books. I described him to the officers 
of the one at which the doctor said he was graduated. I had 
his photograph. They told me the picture was Tom Lynch’s. 
Of course I was satisfied then. I went to Baltimore, and 
saw Mr. Loring. He told me Tom had ‘ run himself out,’ 
spent his money, and left Dayton, where he had settled. I 
went there. So far from having ruined himself, he had led 
the place in the full tide of success, and with plenty of mone_> 
in his pocket. I next went to New York. I was there si^f 
weeks, looking up Buckstone’s affairs. While I was thus 
engaged, I saw the name of Sandy McGuire in the court 
column. He had lost his money, or part of it, and in a 
drunken brawl had struck a man a fatal blow. He was sen« 
tenced to the state prison for life for manslaughter. 


360 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ I went up to Sing Sing, and found him. He told me 
the whole truth, and I had his deposition taken. I found his 
wife, who was a nurse in the hospital. I came to Summer- 
ville next, where I staid a week, and worked up my case.” 

“What did you learn about Buckstone?” 

“ I found his rooms, and obtained some of the doctor’s let- 
ters. My only object in looking him up was, to establish his 
relations with the doctor. But up to Tuesday night, though 
I had the means of showing that the witness had lied a dozen 
times, I had no actual proof that he was the stranger.” 

“Why did he confess?” 

“ He whined around me until I told him I should over- 
whelm him the next day. He confessed the whole then, 
and seemed to be very penitent.” 

“ I have no doubt he was.” 

“ It was good policy to be so.” 

“ I think he was really sorry.” 

“ I hope he was.” 

“ He is going away for a time.” 

“ Indeed? Will he return? ” 

“ If he thinks he shall be well received, he will.” 

“I hope he will remain. Julia, I dare say, will not be 
quite willing to have him go,” added Dick, trying to look 
indifferent, which was as impossible as for water to run 
up hill. 

“Julia is a mystery to me. I don’t know what she 
thinks.” 

Dick took this answer as a rebuff, and he said no more of 
Julia. Eugene was not willing to speak for her, and he 
changed the subject. He talked about his chapel and his mis. 
sionaries, his model houses, and his battle with the mill peo- 
ple. But these were dry topics after the exciting events of 
the day ; and at midnight both of them retired. 

The next day the Poppleton Mercury came, with a full 
account of the trial of Ross Kingman ; but this was already 
an old story, and Eugene’s thought was soon riveted to a 


THE VERDICT. 


361 


paragraph which called the attention of the reader to the 
appropriate column where would be found the announce- 
ment of the marriage of Eliot Buckstone and Mary King- 
man. The article stated that Mrs. Buckstone had her 
marriage certificate and other papers to confirm the fact of 
her union with the unfortunate man who had sought to rob 
her of her title of wife. These papers had been sent to Mrs. 
Buckstone at a late hour on the day of the trial, up to which 
time she had been entirely ignorant of their existence. 

Of course Dr. Lynch was the author of the parag^^aph, 
and the people of Poppleton must by this time be satisfied 
that Mary had been a wife, and was now a widow. 

3 ‘ 


362 


THE WAY OP THE WORlLD. 


CHAPTER XXVni. 

THE DOCTOR HIMSELF AGAIN. 

O N the morning after his return to Poppleton, Dick Birch 
went down to the Port, and resumed his duties as the 
business man of Eugene, just as though nothing had hap- 
pened. People were glad to see him ; they said so, and most 
of them knew he was “ all right ” from the beginning. 
There was not the shadow of a stain resting upon him. 
Some enthusiastic individuals proposed to give him a public 
reception — welcome him with speeches, and glorify him in 
the choicest rhetoric of the Poppleton orators ; but those who 
knew Dick best were sure that he would not submit to the 
operation. 

Eugene’s income had been accumulating with fearful 
rapidity, and the balance in his favor in the Poppleton Bank 
was absolutely appalling. The affrighted 7nillionnaire began 
to reproach himself for his own laziness. The chapel and 
the church, the missionaries and the Sisters of Charity, seemed 
hardly to affect the mighty balance, and the model houses 
paid their own way. Something must be done to mitigate 
the severity of the balance, which reproached the unfortunate 
o^vner for his want of enterprise. 

Dick sympathized with him, and before dinner time the 
balance was happily disposed of, and the bewildered man of 
money dined in peace. A public library and reading-room 
were projected. A site for an elegant building was agreed 
upon, and an investment for its perpetual support and im- 
provement was arranged. Several vacant rooms in the bank 


THE DOCTOR HIMSELF AGAIN. 


363 

building were; at once hired for the temporary accommoda- 
tion of the library, for the projected edifice could not be 
completed before the autumn of the next year. 

“ Of course this will be called the ‘ Hungerford Library,’ 
said Dick Birch, when the plan was satisfactorily adjusted. 

“ Bah ! ” 

“ Why not?” 

“ I will not pei-mit my name to be applied to any public 
institution.” 

“ But the people who are to receive the benefit of this 
library will insist upon it.” 

“ I will never consent. It shall be called the ‘ Poppleton 
Library,’ or something of that sort.” 

“Just think of the immense value of this institution to the 
people. Here will be a large library, from which the whole 
town may take books without cost. Here will be a great 
hall, warmed and lighted, open day and evening, supplied 
with all the newspapers and magazines of the day, where 
the citizens can sit and read publications which would cost 
them a hundred dollars a year to obtain individually. Here 
is a conversation-room, where they can meet to talk politics, 
religion, ships, and factories. Don’t you think they will be 
grateful to you ? ” 

“ Doubtless.” 

“ They will insist upon having your name in connection 
with the enterprise.” 

“ If that were the alternative, I wouldn’t do it at all. I 
intend to do this thing for the public good, not for my own 
glory. Giving my own name to such an institution, seems 
to me very much like putting ‘ esquire ’ to my own signature. 
I will not do it, or let it be done.” 

“ Of course you will do as you please.” 

“ I know of nothing that would make me feel cheaper and 
more insignificant, than to see my name in great letters on 
the proposed building. I abhor the very idea.” 

Eugene was decided, and he was sincere. He was not 


3^4 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


the man who offered to give a large sum of money to an^ 
town that would adopt his name ; he could not have been 
even a friend of such a man. The balance was effectually 
used up, and Hungerford and his friend went to dinner with 
better appetites for the good work they had done. Dick had 
dropped back very easily into his old position, which was 
not less satisfactory to the family than to himself. 

Julia was in no respect altered from what she had been 
before Dick’s withdrawal from the mansion. She treated 
him now with the intimacy of friendship, but he did not 
seem at all disposed to improve 1 is opportunity. He did 
not attempt to make love to her, resorted to no expedients 
to win her favor ; in fact, he conducted himself in the most 
commonplace manner, precisely as though he did not intend 
to take advantage of Dr. Lynch’s absence. 

Dick, we must get up a list of books for the public 
library,” said Eugene, after dinner. 

‘‘ That is no small matter.” 

“ No ; and as you and I have enough to do, I propose to 
leave the selection to another.” 

“ I am entirely willing.” 

“ I will carry what catalogues we have to Mary, and let 
her do this work. She has good taste and good judgment.” 

“ Excellent ! ” laughed Dick. 

“John Porter will assist her.” 

“ I think you had better assist her yourself.” 

Eugene took the catalogues and went to The Great Bell. 
He laid his bundle on the table in the parlor, and came 
away without saying a word about the public library. He 
forgot it. ^ 

“ To-morrow has come, Mary,” said he, as he took hei 
hand, and kissed her cheek. 

Mary was troubled. 

“ It has come too soon.” 

“ Don’t you love me?” 

“ I cannot deny it.” 


THE DOCTOR HIMSELF AGAIN. 


365 


“ Would you deny it? ” 

“ If I could I might be moie true and just to you.” 

“ If you love me, it is all I ask. You consent?” 

“ I do not — yet.” 

“ Why not, Mary ? ” 

“ I do not deserve you.” 

“ Do I deserve you ? ” 

“ O, yes ! ” 

“ Then w^ould you deprive me of my desert? ” 

“ Eugene, my heart says yes ; my reason says no.” 

“ The heart before the reason, Mary.” 

“ I am afraid that, months or years hence, when this step 
cannot be recalled, you will see me as I am. You will think 
of the odious events which once separated us, and wish you 
had passed me by on the other side.” 

“ You wrong me, Mary.” 

“ It would not be unnatural, Eugene. You know what a 
break there was in the love which began while we were 
children. Even now you wish this had not happened.” 

“ I do,” replied Eugene, candidly. “ If I could to-day be 
reduced to poverty, and possess you as you were before 
Buckstone stepped into your path, I would take the poverty, 
and rejoicingly clasp my treasure to my heart.” 

Mary shrank from him. 

“ Then you do not regard me as you did before ? ” said 
she, sadly, and with quivering lip. 

‘‘ I love you the same ; do not shrink from me. I have 
only said that I would give the poor boon of wealth to have 
you as you were. This cannot be. Mary, I am cool, self- 
possessed ; I am not carried away by any silly enthusiasm. 
I have thought calmly and dispassionately of our marriage. 
1 have compared you with all the women I know — with all 
I have seen here and abroad. You are beautiful ; if it were 
for your beauty alone I sought you, I could distrust myself. 
It is not. You have a Christian heart. You were my ideal 
of a woman. You are still. What has happened does not 

31* 


366 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


affect the qualities for which I seek you. Morally, inciitally, 
spiritually, you are the same. I love you in spite of whal 
has come between us. I cannot love another. I could not 
help looking coldly upon the fairest and most accomplished, 
even after I knew that you were the wife of another. If J 
had been doomed never to see you again, I should still have 
cherished the Mary I loved, and never thought of supplying 
her place with another. I feel what I say ; I mean it. I 
Em not making a special plea ; I am only telling the simple 
truth.” 

She did not shrink from him now. 

“ Could I have known that you still loved me,” replied 
she, as he took her hand again, “ I should not have done 
violence to my own heart as I did. I would have slept in 
the woods, and fed upon acorns, rather than be false to the 
love that was in my heart. I thought you repelled me. I 
gave you up, and believed that I had conquered my heart.” 

“ It was my fault ; but let us not speak of these things. 
They are loathsome to me. Let me atone for my error.” 

“ I wish you to know the whole truth. The past is more 
painful to me than it can be to you.” 

“ Let the dead bury their dead ; let us never allude to 
these things again.” 

“ Never, Eugene.” 

“ You are mine, Mary? ” 

“ I cannot say no, and I dare not say yes.” 

His arm encircled her waist, as she leaned her head upon 
his shoulder. There were tears in her eyes — why they 
came she could not tell. 

“ Do not rob me of this highest earthly joy, Mary.” 

“ I can rob you of nothing, Eugene ; no word or deed of 
mine can add a joy to your lot.” 

“ The word can hardly add to the consent your looks and 
actions give, Mary, but speak.” 

“ Yes, Eugene ! Do with me as you will. I am not 
worthy, but such as I am, I am yours, since you desire it.” 


THE DOCTOR HIMSELF AGAIN. 567 

She smiled through her tears, as he printed his warm xisa 
upon her lips, and the compact was sealed. 

They were to be married in the spring ; to no earlier time 
than this would she willingly consent. When he had gone, 
Mary wondered what the bundle of catalogues could mean ; 
but Eugene came every day after this, and in a week the list 
of books for the Poppleton library was ready. 

Mary still applied herself with unremitting diligence to 
ner missionary duties in connection with the chapel. John 
Porter preached and labored among the Protestant poor, and 
Father McCaflferty and the Sisters of Charity among the 
Catholic. The keepers of grog shops complained of hard 
times. The reading-room was opened ; the books of the 
library began to circulate ; a course of lectures was com- 
menced ; and then the keepers of the billiard and bowling 
saloons began to grumble, as their patrons decreased in 
number. 

“ I have it ! ” exclaimed Eugene, as soon as the effects of 
his enterprise began to be apparent. 

“ What, Hungerford? ” asked Dick, taking his cigar from 
his mouth. 

“We must have the library building three stories high.” 

“ Is that all ? ” laughed Dick, who did not regard this as a 
very brilliant idea. 

“ The structure will be on a side hill. We can have it 
two stories on the street, and three in the rear.” 

“ No doubt we can ; what are you talking about, Hun- 
gerford ? ” 

“ In the lower story we will have a bowling alley and a 
billiard-room.” 

“ Will you, indeed? I thought you were opposed to these 
institutions.” 

“ Not to the bowling or the billiards, but to the gambling, 
drinking, and swearing, which always go with them. We 
will make these amusements decent and respectable. Nc 
drinking, no profanity, no gambling will be allowed or oui 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


568 

premises. Young men must have amusements ; let them be 
innocent amusements, and we may cheat the devil out of 
man}/^ a fine young fellow.” 

“ What is the next story for? ” 

The library, the reading and conversation rooms.” 

“ Good ; but a ten-strike in the basement might disturb 
the politicians up stairs, or upset the lucubrations of the 
philosophical student, buried in the contents of the Edin- 
burgh or North British.” 

“ The floor can be made of brick or stone, so that the 
noise will not disturb the readers or the talkers. The upper 
story will be for the lecture-room.” 

Eugene was satisfied with the idea, and so was Dick 
Birch. Both were confident that this institution would 
place Poppleton one step nearer paradise. New instruc- 
tions were immediately sent to the architect, who was 
preparing the plans. 

Dr. Lynch had been absent a month. Poppleton missed 
him very much. The people spoke kindly of him. He 
“felt bad,” and they pitied hifn. The invalids wanted 
their physician. Dr. White could not fill his place. Dr. 
Lynch had a way of making people believe they were very 
sick, when they, desired to think so ; then he understood 
their cases ; he knew their constitutions better than any other 
man. He could look so sad and sympathizing in an emer- 
gency which required nothing but a brown-bread pill to 
restore the patient to perfect health. If a man did not want 
to be very sick, he could often accommodate him. A patient 
with a bad liver had his pork and coffee stopped for a month, 
and got well on faith in a compound of molasses and water, 
medicinally impregnated with essence of sassafras. The 
doctor had tact ; he doctored people’s imaginations, quite as 
much as their bodies, when the circumstances indicated such 
an array of remedial agents. 

The invalids wanted their doctor. Mrs. Brown hoped the 
Lord would spare hei from any sickness till Dr. Lynch came 


THE DOCTOR HIMSELE AGAIN. 


369 


back. Mrs. Jones would certainly die if she had one of hei 
ill turns in his absence. Squire Green was sure he could 
not survive another attack of liver complaint, if his old 
doctor, who had twice saved his life, could not attend him. 
Deacon Smith might as well speak for his gravestone at once 
if Dr. Lynch did not return before spring. The popular 
physician had made a bad mistake in the Buckstone busi- 
ness ; but all men make mistakes, and he was no worse than 
others. He had perjured himself, wronged an innocent 
man ; but he had taken it all back ; he had done all he 
could, and angels could no more. 

The ship-masters, the ship-builders, the bank officers, and 
the mill agents, who were wont to eat evening suppers at 
the Bell River House, declared that the doctor had been the 
life and soul of the party ; and they hoped he would come 
back. He had been a little too sharp for his own interest ; 
but there were a great many worse men than Dr. Lynch, 
who still held up their heads in society. 

Everybody condemned the conduct of the doctor, but all 
hoped he would return. Eugene Hungerford spoke ten- 
derly of him, and Mr. Birch, the man of all others who had 
the right to denounce him, was never heard to say a word 
against him. The public voice preached the cardinal doc- 
trine of Christianity : “ And now abideth faith, hope, 

charity — these three ; but the greatest of these is charity.” 
So said Poppleton, and the doctor was forgiven. 

At the end of the month Dr. Lynch came back, to close 
up his business affairs, previous to his final departure. The 
people protested. Squire Green was down with the liver 
complaint, and as a special favor, the doctor consented to 
see him ; then to attend him while he remained. There 
was a supper of the club at the hotel ; seven times the doctor 
positively refused to be present, and finally went. A man at 
the Mills had his leg crushed on the railroad ; the doctor 
reluctantly consented to amputate it. Mrs. Jones had an 
ill turn ; he could not refuse her earnest petition. He 


370 


THE WAY OF THE WORI.D. 


performed all these kind acts with apparent unv/illingness, 
and still continued to talk of going. The pressure brought to 
bear upon him was tremendous, and he could not resist it. 
^1. new sign, with the name of ‘‘ Dr. Lynch ” upon it, was 
nailed to his office door, for, the doctor facetiously added, his 
practice was already sufficient, and the name could no longer 
injure him. 

The doctor was invited to visit Pine Hill; he declined. 
He could not look Julia in the face, he said. He was 
ashamed of his conduct. She could not help despising him. 
He did love her, but it was right that he should suffer. 

“ Mr. Hungerford, I am no hypocrite,” added the doctor. 
“ When I say suffer, I mean so. God knows how gladly I 
would resume my old intimacy with your ffimily ; but I shall 
remain a voluntary exile. I do not deserve any further kind- 
ness at your hands.” 

“ We shall forget the past. We do not ask you to punish 
yourself so severely. Mr. Birch would be as glad to see you 
at Pine Hill as I should.” 

“ He overwhelms me with his generosity. He loves Julia ; 
no do I. I will not go.” 

“ That does not alter the case.” 

“ I will not seem to come between him and her.” 

“Julia cannot be bargained for.” 

“ No ; but I can prove my regard for-Mr. Birch, my will- 
ingness to suffer for his sake, by not attempting to win her. 
If this involves any presumption on my part, it does not 
affect my intentions towards our mutual friend. Let us 
change the topic, Mr. Hungerford,” added the doctor, as he 
unlocked a closet and took from it a human skull. 

Eugene was annoyed. 

“ One more act of justice yet remains to be done, Mr. 
Hungerford. This is the skull of Buckstone.” 

“ Indeed ! ” exclaimed Eugene, disgusted at the idea it 
suggested. 

“ Here is the part where Ross struck the fatal blow,” 


THE DOCTOR HIMSELF AGAIN. 37 1 

added the doctor, pointing to a place on the skull where the 
bone was beaten in and broken.” 

“Why do you keep it?” 

“ I do not purpose to do so. I shall employ the sexton 
who buried the body to put this in the coffin. I will restore 
the brain, which I have kept in spirits. If you please, I 
will explain to you the nature of Mr. Dunbar’s disease, and 
show you in this brain just what the trouble was.” 

“ No, I thank you,” replied Eugene. 

Whether the skull and brain were ever returned to the 
body in the ground Eugene never inquired. He went home 
and reported what the doctor had said about coming to Pine 
Hill. Even Julia declared that he was too nice — more nice 
than wise, But, in less than a week from this time. Dr. 
Lynch did go to Pine Hill. It was midnight — dark, cold, 
and stormy. Mrs. Plungerford had been suffering, for sev- 
eral days, with a severe cold ; and in the night her symptoms 
had suddenly assumed a form which alarmed Julia. The 
sufferer wanted Dr. Lynch, if she had any physician. She 
had unbounded confidence in him. Eugene went for the 
doctor himself. 

“ Don’t you think you had better procure some other phy- 
sician, Mr. Hungerford ? ” asked the doctor, who seemed to 
be much troubled at the idea of going to Pine Plill. 

“You surely will not refuse to go. Dr. Lynch?” 

“ Of course I am entirely willing to go ; I would do 
anything for your family ; but don’t you think, under the 
circumstances, that it would be' better to call another 
physician ? ” 

“ My mother particularly desired to have you. If you are 
not willi -ig to go ” 

“ I am entirely willing to go, Mr. Hungerford. Do not 
misunderstand me.” 

“ My mother is very sick ; be as quick as possible.” 

“ I will be with you in a moment,” replied the doctor, as 
he hastened his preparations. “ I would go a thousand 


372 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


miles to serve your mother, but of course I must meet 
Jtilia.’’ 

“ That cannot be avoided, even if you wish to avoid it.” 

Eugene thought that Dr. Lynch exhibited a degree of deli- 
cacy and consideration which few men possessed. He cer- 
tainly appeared to be sincere in his purpose to renounce his 
claims, if any he had, upon Julia. 

The doctor was shown to the room of Mrs. Hungerford. 
Julia was there, sad and troubled. She gave her hand to 
the physician, and warmly greeted him. She thought only 
of her mother, and she believed that he would save her if 
human skill could do so. 

“ I am sorry to meet you under such unpleasant circum- 
stances, after my absence,” said the doctor, as he took off 
his overcoat, and opened his trunk. 

“Why didn’t you come when we sent for you? We 
should have been glad to see you.” 

“ Thank you ; but I did not feel like coming. You have 
learned to despise me, and I submit, for I deserve it.” 

“ Far from it, doctor. We have never ceased to be grateful 
to you. I am afraid mother is very sick.” 

“ I fear she is, from the sound of her breathing.” 

The doctor bent over her. She gave him her hand, and, 
hardly able to speak, expressed her pleasure at seeing him 
again. He felt her pulse, applied his ear to her chest, 
making a very careful examination of her condition. He 
shook his head, and Julia trembled like an aspen. He spoke 
of lung fever. It was a dangerous disease at the patient’s 
time of life, and with her peculiar constitution. But the 
doctor went to work. He gave her medicine ; he applied 
poultices, draughts, lotions. He did not leave her bedside 
during the remainder of the night. Before daylight she was 
comparatively comfortable, and slept a little. 

Dr. Lynch said the physician had not been called soon 
enough; and Mrs. Hungerford had typhoid-pneumonii. 
For two weeks he was as diligent, as watchful, as interested. 


THE DOCTOR HIMSELF AGAIN. 


373 


apparentlj^, as he had been in Julia’s illness. It was a sickly 
season in Poppleton, and he was worked night and day. He 
grew pale ; he would drop asleep while sitting at the bedside 
of his Pine Hill patient. Julia was afraid the doctor would 
be sick himself ; but he would remit no portion of his atten- 
tions to her mother. 

Mrs. Hungerford began to improve. Again came rich 
wines, grapes from foreign shores, and bouquets from the 
conservatories of the great city ; but whether or not the 
doctor brought these things for consistency’s sake, the reader 
may judge. At any rate, no one at Pine Hill thought of the 
errors of Dr. Lynch ; in fact, he was again the demigod of 
Pine Hill. His patient had not been as near to death’s door 
as Julia was ; but she might have been if the doctor had 
been less faithful, less skilful ; might have died in the hands 
of an ordinary physician ; so the family were willing to 
believe. 

Dr. Lynch saw Julia every day, several times a day, dur- 
ing her mother’s severe illness. He sat for hours with her 
by the bedside of the invalid. His former relations were 
apparently reestablished, and he did not conceal from her 
the pleasure her society afforded him. 

“ Your mother is pretty well now. Miss Hungerford,” said 
he, one day, when the patient was down stairs. “ I think 
she needs a physician no longer.” 

“ But you will see her occasionally, doctor?” 

“ Perhaps not ; it is hardly proper for me to come here, 
except professionally,” replied the doctor, glancing into the 
fair eyes of the beautiful girl. 

“ Proper — why not?” said she, her cheek glowing. 

“ It depends upon circumstances. If you will favor me 
with ten minutes’ private conversation, I can answer better.” 

“ I will, with pleasure. Take a seat, doctor.” 

It was in the sitting-room, and they were alone. 

32 


374 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

FORGIVE AND FORGET. 

J ULUv doubtless anticipated the subject of the interview. 

Her cheek was crimson, but there was a certain resolution 
manifested in her eye which might have foreboded ill to the 
doctor’s hopes, or might have been merely the effect of that 
bracing up of the nerves which is necessary to enable a 
maiden to meet what she desires, yet dreads. 

“ Miss Hungerford, perhaps I am rash and foolhardy. I 
feel that I am ; but I cannot endure the painful anxiety in 
which I have existed during the last two months,” the doctor 
began. “ You despise me ; you are disgusted with me.” 

“ You wrong me, and you wrong yourself. Dr. Lynch.” 

“ It would not be unnatural that you should do so.” 

“ On the contrary, it would be more than strange if one 
for whom you have done so much should regard you with 
any other feelings than respect and esteem.” 

“ Miss Hungerford, you know what wrong I have done ; 
you know how grossly and inexcusably I have injured your 
brother’s best friend — one who had been more than a friend 
to me.” 

“Why need you mention this unpleasant matter, doctor? 
It is past and forgotten.” 

“ It cannot be forgotten ; at least, net by me. The wrong 
was too grievous to rest lightly on my awakened con- 
science.” 

“ It was a grievous wrong. Dr. Lynch ; it would be worse 
^han foolish to deny it.” 


FORGIVE AND FORGET. 375 

The doctor did not appear to be encouraged by this 
remark. 

There was nothing to palliate it,” he added, meekly. 

“ Nothing, doctor ; no attempt was made on your part to 
justify or excuse your conduct, which makes your friends all 
the more ready to forget and forgive.” 

“ I may be forgiven as the condemned criminal is forgiven, 
but I am despised as he is despised.” 

“Far from it, doctor. Your confession, and the manly 
reparation you made, have atoned for the error ; and for one, 
I must beg you never to allude to it again. One who has 
been so kind to us cannot be despised, or even regarded with 
coldness.” 

“Miss Hungerford, you do not know what I have suffered. 
Long before the trial, long before Mr. Birch had the means 
of proving his innocence, I was convicted of my error. My 
penitence dates, not from the day Ross Kingman was tried, 
but from the day when you, lying at death’s door, opened 
your eyes and smiled upon me. It was your look that con- 
quered me, not the fear of public disgrace. Miss Hunger- 
ford, I love you ! Do not spurn me.” 

“ I am honored by your preference,” stammered Julia. 

“ You saved me from myself. As I bent over you, pale, 
wasted, almost in heaven, you seemed like an angel sent to 
convict and condemn me. I was convicted and condemned. 
O, how I loathed myself! ” continued the doctor, earnestly. 

“You were very kind to me then.” 

“ If I could have lain down in the grave, and gone to 
heaven with you, how happy I should have been ! I was 
not fit for heaven ; I was not lit even for the presence of the 
angel whom I had labored to save from the arms of death.” 

“You are sentimental, doctor,” added Julia, trying to 
smile. 

“ The feeling of my own unworthiness as I looked upon 
you, as I watched your dimmed eye and your wasted form, 
was terrible to me, for I could not help loving you. When 


376 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


you were better, I tried to tear the idol from my soul. 1 
could not ; it had become part of my being. I was banished 
from your presence. Every day of absence was a day of 
misery. I would not even have you know what I endured. 
There was no hope, no comfort for me. But I had been so 
base and wicked that I deserved to suffer. I could reproach 
no one but myself.” 

“ Why need you indulge in this morbid self-condemnation ? 
You have confessed your error ; you have atoned foi it as far 
as you can. Why need you repine any more ? ” 

“ Because my error has robbed me of all the joys of life,” 
replied the doctor, in the bitterness of desperation. 

“ That cannot be.” 

“ It can be ; it is.” 

“ Your profession still enables you to do good to your 
fellow-beings, and your kind heart finds abundant objects of 
charity. Y^ou can be happy in being true to yourself and 
useful to others.” 

Dr. Lynch was surprised into an expression of contempt, 
but it was instantly supplanted by his sad look of humiliation 
and self-abasement. 

“ You did not quite understand me. I have all these joys, 
and they are joys indeed. I am human, and therefore selfish. 
That which I have regarded as the greatest joy of earth has 
fled from my grasp, if it were ever within my reach.” 

Julia knew what he meant, and her cheek betrayed her 
consciousness. 

“ If you desire any selfish joy, you should be willing to 
dispense with it. We should not repine because we cannot 
have all that we desire in this world ; that is the common 
lot of humanity.” 

“ What I desire is absolutely necessary to save me from 
hopeless misery.” 

“ I trust not.” 

“Miss Hungerford, I have been self-banished from this 
house for your sake ” 


FORGIVE AND ^ORGET. 


377 


“ For my sake ! ” 

“ Truly for your sake.” 

“ I should always have been glad to see you.” 

“The feeling that I was not worthy to come into youi 
presence has made me an exile from the society which 1 
have longed for, pined for. I had fully resolved, bitter and 
terrible as was the fate to which I doomed myself, never 
again to see you.” 

“ Why should you ? ” 

“ Because I love you ! You spurn me ; you shrink from 
me ! ” exclaimed the doctor, with passionate earnestness. 

Julia did not move, did not start, did not shrink. As she 
had no feeling of disgust, she did not manifest any. The 
suitor was poetic, rather dramatic, in his demonstrations. 
Julia looked anxious, troubled, rather than agitated. 

“ I am sure, Dr. Lynch, no one of our family, least of all 
myself, regards you with aversion. We are weighed down 
with obligations to you ; and if we were so disposed, we 
could not afford to think unkindly of you.” 

“You are noble and generous, and your generosity makes 
my error all the more loathsome to me. I have never ceased 
to feel your kindness and generosity ; but I could not tax it 
to the extent of compelling you to tolerate one so base and 
despicable as myself.” 

“ You really hurt my feelings by applying such epithets to 
yourself.” 

Perhaps that was what the doctor intended to do. 

“ I am what I am. I would sacrifice everything to win 
back the integrity I have lost. I cannot hide myself from 
my own eyes. I was willing to hide myself from yours. I 
intended not again to burden your family with the sight 
of me.” 

“ We should have been glad to see you every day since 
your return. Eugene invited you, and tried to persuade you 
to come to Pine Hill. Does not tlys fact convince you fhal 
you would have been welcome here ? ” 

32* 


378 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ I have never doubted that I should be welcome. To 
stay away seemed to me to be a sacred duty, though it was 
contrary to my own inclinations. Does this convince you 
of the sincerity of my repentance?” 

“We knew you were sincere, and we asked no such 
proof.” 

“ I believed it was my duty to stay away. I faithfully fol- 
lowed my conviction. I should have persevered, but your 
brother insisted that I should attend your mother in her 
sickness.” 

“ Mother could not think of having any other physician.” 

“ It was not my fault that I came.” 

“ Your fault ! It was kind of you to come. Mother 
might have died if you had refused to come.” 

“ But I dreaded to come ; not on your mother’s account, 
of course, for I respect and esteem her more than any other 
woman in the world. I feared to come.” 

“ Why should 3^011 ? ” 

“ I suggested to your brother that he had better call in 
another physician.” 

“ So he told me.” 

“If I could honorably have avoided coming, I should have 
done so.” 

“lam sorry you had so strong a dislike to coming to our 
house.” 

“ Dislike ! Far from it ! ” 

“ What was it, then ? ” 

“ Simple duty. I could not avoid seeing you.” 

“ Did you object to seeing me?” 

“ It was rapture even to look upon you ! Julia, I came. 
Right or wrong, I cannot help loving you. I would have 
spared you this, for I know you hate me, if your gentle na- 
ture is capable of hating.” 

V I do not hate you ; I do not dislike you, doctor. Your 
words pain me.” 

“ I have thought that it was the guidings of Providence 


FORGIVE ANt) FORGET. 


379 


that brought me here after I had so solemnly exiled myself 
from these halls. The happiest hours of my life have been 
spent here ; but, like our first parents, I have been driven 
from . Eden by my own transgression.” 

“ Be more reasonable, doctor. Promise me that you will 
come here as you used to come. I will insure you a glad 
welcome at all times.” 

“ Heaven knows how joyfully I would give such a prom- 
ise ! Julia — will you pardon me for speaking to you thus 
familiarly? ” 

“ Certainly ; it is all in the family,” laughed she. 

Julia, how many times have I said I loved you ! You 
do not speak of this.” 

“ I cannot,” she replied, with some confusion. 

“ Do you hate me ? ” 

“ No.” 

“You despise me.” 

“ No.” 

“ You believe that I am unworthy of you.” 

“ No ; we have all done wrong, and we need to be for- 
given.” 

“ Have you forgiven me?” 

“ I have.” 

“ Do you regard me now as you did before my great 
transgression was exposed?” 

“ I do not.” 

“ I feared it,” replied he, with a kind of hopeless gasp 
between a sigh and a groan. 

“ Do not misunderstand me. Dr. Lynch. While I respect 
and esteem you ; while I am grateful to you to a degree I 
cannot express ; while I forgive and forget the wrong you 
have done ; while there is nothing in the world that I would 
not do for you, — I cannot regard you as I did before.” 

Dr. Lynch breathed forth a sigh which seemed to come 
from the deepest depths of a hopeless and desponding soul. 
He rose from his chair, and walked across the room, 


380 


THE WAY OF THE WOULD. 


apparently to hide his emotions from Julia. He stood facing 
the corner of the room. He took a spotless white handker- 
chief from his pocket. 

“ Doctor, you do not understand me,’’ said Julia, greatly 
troubled by the apparent anguish of her suitor. 

“ You speak too plainly to have your meaning mistaken,” 
he replied, as he turned and walked towards her again. 

There was an expression of agony on his face which ap- 
pealed to her woman’s heart with tremendous force. His 
eyes looked misty, and if his spotless handkerchief was not 
stained by a tear, perhaps it was because it is not manly to 
weep. 

“I do not condemn you. I shall meet you as I have 
always met you. I shall have the same regard for you.” 

“ But you have not even forgiven me.” 

“ I have, fully and freely.” 

“You cannot forget my transgressions.” 

“ I have forgotten them.” 

“ Then why do you say you shall not again regard me as 
you did before?” 

“You have proved your capacity to do what is as loath- 
some to you as it is to me. My estimate of your character 
has been affected. I cannot help it. It is involuntary on 
my part. I can forgive and forget the wrong, but I cannot 
blot out the influence which it has had upon my mind.” 

“ Then you are always to look down upon me, from the 
pinnacle of your own goodness, as a base and hopeless trans- 
gressor ? ” 

“ How much you wrong me ! St. Paul, who called him- 
self the chief of sinners, came to be the holiest of saints. 
The stone that was rejected becomes the head of the corner. 
I shall not think — none at Pine Hill will think — of what 
you were, or what you have done. We shall esteem you. 
and judge you by what you are. We may all learn to regard 
you even more kindly than before anything occurred to lower 
our estimate of you.” 


FORGIVE AND FORGET. 38] 

“ That is hopeful,” said the doctor, apparently somewhat 
comforted by her explanation. 

“ I trust you are satisfied.” 

“ As far from it as Tantalus when the cool waters which 
he could not drink rippled within reach of his parched lips,” 
replied the doctor, vehemently. “Julia, I love you with all 
my mind, heart, and soul. I have not a thought of existence 
w hich is not wedded to you ! I have not a hope or a joy 
which is not colored by your smile ! I have not a waking 
hour which is not haunted by your image ! Life without 
you is misery, torment, desperation ; with you it is heaven. 
Is there any hope for me ? ” 

“ I am afraid not.” 

“ You do not love me.” 

“ I do not dislike you.” 

“ There was a time when I believed you were not wholly 
indifferent to me.” 

“ I am not now, any more than then,” she replied, with a 
calmness which almost prostrated the ardent wooer. 

“ You distort my meaning. I speak not of simple friend- 
ship or mere regard. Do you love me, Julia?” 

“ I do not.” 

Dr. Lynch sprang from his chair. He seemed to be furi- 
ous in his disappointment ; like one of those sunny-clime 
lovers who, refused, clap a pistol to their heads, and blow 
out their brains, or find a grave in the deepest waters that 
flow within their reach. He indulged in sharp, impatient, 
convulsive movements; his eyes glared out the window, at 
the floor, at the ceiling. And Julia was calm as a summer 
rainbow while the lightnings gleam and the thunder roars 
in the opposite horizon. This is something which some 
men must have, as some children must have the whooping- 
cough. It is really terrible, but nothing can be done. 

“Julia,” cried the doctor, suddenly dashing across the 
roo'm to the place where she sat, — “Julia, ca7i you ever 
love me?” 


382 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“I don’t know.” 

“ Can you permit me to hope ? ” 

“ I fear it would be useless to anticipate such a conclusion 
of the whole matter,” she replied, smiling. 

The doctor demonstrated again for a few moments. She 
was as cold as an iceberg. 

“ You close the door of hope against me?” 

“ I do not.” 

“You permit me to hope?” 

“Yes, if you will.” 

“ Forgive me, Julia ; do you love another?” 

“ Not even my best friend may ask me such a question.” 

She blushed deeply. 

“You love Mr. Birch ; and he is worthy of you,” groaned 
the doctor. 

“ Mr. Birch never spoke a word to me on such a subject ; 
never even hinted at it.” 

“ Do you not love him?” 

“ I will not answer.” 

“If you do, Julia, it is right that you should say so 
to me.” 

“ I have said all that I would say, even to my own mother, 
concerning Mr. Birch. Neither you, nor any one, has the 
right to catechise me on that which every woman must con- 
ceal until it reveals itself.” 

“ I did not ask for the purpose of impertinently prying 
into your affairs. Miss Hungerford,” continued the doctor, 
rather coldly. “ If you love Mr. Birch, any attentions from 
me would be an annoyance to you.” 

“ I wish to meet you as we have always met. I regard 
you as a strong personal friend, to whom I am under no 
common obligations.” 

“ Do not speak of obligations.” 

“ It gives me great satisfaction to acknowledge them. 
Any attentions you may be disposed to bestow upon me will 
always be gratefully received.” 


FORGIVE AND FORGET. 


383 


“ You do not accept the issue as it is. I love you. I have 
committed myself both by word and deed. I have given you 
the power to say you have rejected me.” 

“ I have not rejected you ; if I had, I could not men- 
tion it.” 

“You have not?” 

“ No.” 

“ You have said that you regard my suit as hopeless.” 

“ That is my opinion.” 

“If Mr. Birch ” 

“ No more of Mr. Birch, if you please. I am committed 
to no one. I have decided nothing. I am as ignorant of the 
future as you are. I am content to let events take their 
course. Am I a flirt? No. I will marry no man unless I 
love him well enough to be his wife.” 

“ You neither accept nor reject me.” 

“ I do not. I hope to meet you as a friend.” 

“Julia, this is misery for me.” 

“ I have told you the simple truth. I am passive. I can- 
not control my heart. I will obey its dictates as I shall those 
of my conscience.” 

If Dr. Lynch was not satisfied with the result of this inter- 
view, it certainly was not Julia’s fault. Nothing was de- 
cided, and the doctor joined Eugene and Dick Birch in the 
library without a very clear apprehension of his own posi- 
tion. It looked rather hopeless .from one point of view, but 
the gates of paradise had not been closed against him. Of 
course he believed that Birch had all the advantage now, 
tliough it appeared that he had not been forward to avail 
himself of his opportunity. 

There was a stranger in the library when he entered — a 
plainly-dressed, but very good-looking lady of twenty-five. 
She was introduced to the doctor as Miss Thompson. 

This lady is to be our new missionary,” said Eugene. 
“ T find v^e need such a person.” 

“ There is plenty for her to do,” replied the doctor, who 


384 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


did not appear to have much interest just then in missions or 
missionaries. 

The doctor did not say much, and in a short time took his 
leave. Miss Thompson was to take the place of Mary, 
whose approaching marriage would soon deprive the chapel, 
enterprise of her valuable services. Eugene had spoken of 
the loss which would thus be involved, and Dick had men- 
tioned this lady as one residing with his family for a brief 
period. She was said to be a poor girl, of excellent charac- 
ter and a Christian spirit, who would be glad to do anything 
to help herself. Dick said nothing of her antecedents ; in- 
deed, he carefully avoided telling more about her than was 
absolutely necessary. Eugene was not very curious, any 
farther than to satisfy himself that she was qualified for the 
position for which she was wanted. 

She had arrived at Poppleton while Dr. Lynch was plead- 
ing his cause before Julia. Eugene had conversed with her 
for half an hour. Her manners were pretty, as well as her 
face, and her speech was modest, and indicated intelligence. 
Eugene was entirely satisfied with her. 

“ I have the buggy at the door, and I will drive Miss 
Thompson down to the Port and over to the Mills. I sup- 
pose you are going to The Great Bell,” said Dick. 

“ I am ; I will tell Mary to meet Miss Thompson to- 
morrow, and point out to her the duties of her office,” replied 
Eugene. 

“ Very well. Where is Julia?” 

“ The last I heard of her, she was with the doctor in the 
sitting-room.” 

“ With the doctor ! ” 

“ Between us, Dick, I think he has proposed to her, for he 
certainly looked like a man who had Been rejected,” added 
Eugene, in a low tone. “ I doubt whether we see him here 
again.” 

“ I hope we shall.” 

“ So do I ; but it was hard work to get him here, and 1 


FOFGIVE AND FORGET. 


385 


think he will not come unless he finds it pleasant to do so. 
My mother thinks so much of the doctor that she will be 
likely to plead his cause for him.” 

Julia entered the library just as Dick was going out. Miss 
Thompson was warmly greeted, and Eugene looked for any 
change which might have come over his sister since her 
interview with the doctor. There was none. She was as 
placid as a summer sea. 

Dick drove off with the new missionary. He explained 
to her what his friend was doing for the poor of Poppleton ; 
he described the chapel, and gave John Porter an excellent 
character. Miss Thompson was sad, silent, and thoughtful. 
She listened attentively to all that was said to her until they 
came to the burying-ground. 

“Was he buried there?” she asked, with much emotion. 

“ He was.” 

“ Has any stone been erected over his grave?” 

“ Not yet.” 

“ That shall be my first duty.” 

“ He was placed in the tomb first, and efforts were made 
to find his friends. As no one claimed the body, it was 
buried last summer.” 

“ Do you know where the grave is?” 

“ T do.” 

“ Would it be asking too much of you to show me the 
way ? ” 

“By no means ; but do you think it would be best for you 
to visit the spot? ” 

“ I would like to do so.” 

Dick hitched the horse at the gate of the cemetery, and 
conducted her to the grave of Eliot Buckstone. Miss 
Thompson stood in silence gazing at the mound capped 
with turf. A bunch of flowers which Eugene had gathered 
foi: her in the conservatory — for he could not judge of her 
fitness to do missionary work until he knew whether she 
really loved flowers — was placed at the head of the grave. 

^3 


386 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


Dick retired from the spot, and presently she knelt down, 
and bowed her head. There were tears in her eyes ; they 
were the first that had been shed at the grave of the mur- 
dered man. 

“ Father in heaven, forgive him for the wrong he has done 
to me and to others,” murmured she. 

She rose, wiped away her tears, placed the bunch of flow 
ers on the sod above the breast of the sleeper beneath, and 
turned away. 

“ Mr. Birch, you have been very kind to me ; may I dare 
to ask one more favor of you ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Will you have a white marble stone placed at the head 
of his grave? I will pay for it with the first money I earn.” 

“We will select one at the Port to-day.” 

“ Thank you. I cannot bear to think of his sleeping there 
without a stone to mark his resting-place.” 

“ Every thing you desire shall be done ; but you must not 
even mention his name.” 

“ I will not.” 

They went to the marble works, and the stone was 
ordered. In a few days it was erected. It bore no record 
but the name, age, and date of his death. Through the 
summer that followed, a bunch of fresh flowers was occasion- 
ally found on the grave of the murdered man ; but ^ne 
was seen to place them there, and no one but Dick Birch 
knew that the female missionary of Eugene Hungerford had 
ever been interested in the clay beneath the stone. 


THE RUSTIC BRIDGE. 


387 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE RUSTIC BRIDGE. 

P INE HILL blazed with glory on the evening of the 
■fifteenth of May. Eugene and Mary were married. 
The ceremony had been performed at the farm-house on 
The Great Bell, at six o’clock, in presence of the two fam- 
ilies, and a few intimate personal friends. Dick Birch and 
Julia, Dr. Lynch and Miss Perkins, were groomsmen and 
bridesmaids. At half past six several gayly-decorated barges, 
prepared for the occasion by Ross Kingman, bore the party 
over the channel, and by seven o’clock the festivities at the 
Pine Hill mansion were fairly inaugurated. 

For certain cogent reasons, Eugene, generally opposed to 
much display, favored a universal gathering ; and the most 
elaborate preparations had been made to celebrate the joyous 
occasion. Mary had been under the ban of public displeas- 
ure ; she had been frowned upon, had been neglected and 
despised. Her husband wished to make this her triumph. 
If it was the way of the world to cast her off when in pov- 
erty and subjected to odious suspicions, it was also the way 
of the world to smile upon those whom fortune favored. 
Brilliant lights, gorgeous dresses, inspiring music, a sump- 
tuous feast, put the world in excellently g6)od humor with 
itself. 

Men from the city — caterers, decorators, fire-kings — had 
been at Pine Hill for a week. The house, large as it was, 
was not large enough to hold the multitude ; for all Pop- 
pleton was bidden to the feast. Thousands of fantastic 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


358 

lamps and Chinese lanterns flashed among the trees of the 
grounds. Pyrotechnic fires, of all colors, illuminated the 
scene, and one might see to read fine print anywhere 
between the house and the river. A vast pavilion had been 
erected for the supper, and a small army of cooks and wait- 
ers were as busy as bees in their temporary quarters. The 
Poppleton Brass Band played near the river, and the Ger- 
mania, from the city, on the lawn before the house. 

At seven o’clock, when the guests began to arrive, Eugene 
and the bride stood at the head of the great drawing-room. 
Mary had been subjected to the manipulations of Madame 
La Somebody, from Paris, and her dress of white satin was 
the perfection of the mode. Nothing more beautiful in 
human form could be conceived of than Mrs. Eugene Hun- 
gerford, and the admiration bestowed upon her was unmeas- 
ured and unstinted. She was happy ; the clouds had rolled 
away, and behind their dense volume, paradise had opened 
to her. Earth had become heaven. The fondest dream that 
ever gladdened the heart of woman was realized in that 
blissful hour. She was the wife of the man she loved — who 
loved her. This was joy enough without the gorgeous sur- 
roundings with which she passed to her estate of bliss. 

Eugene Plungerford, tall, well formed, and elegant in his 
manner, never looked better, and never felt happier. Even 
the thought that she who stood by his side had been anoth- 
er’s for a brief period, was forgotten. His cup was full ; the 
one dreg at the bottom could not be seen. 

Parkinson was master of ceremonies in the house, and 
he ushered the guests into the drawing-room with a suavity 
and a dignity which would have been distinguishable in a 
grand chamberlain. It required no little strategetic skill to 
keep the programme from being suddenly blocked by the 
crowd ; but without any jarring, or even any loud words, the 
interminable line of visitors passed by the bridal couple, 
congratulated them, and disappeared, to mingle with the fes' 
tive throngs that filled the gardens and the grounds. 


THE RUSTIC BRIDGE. 


389 


At nine o^clock the festivities became a little more old* 
fashioned. Eugene and his wife abandoned the stateliness 
of their position in the drawing-room, and mingled with the 
guests. Dancing, games, and merrymaking prevailed. Laugh- 
ing, shouting, hilarity, and even rudeness were not frowned 
upon, and everybody was encouraged to make the most of 
the occasion. 

At ten the great pavilion was opened. The tables were 
profusely spread with every luxury which Monsieur the Chef 
de Cuisine could invent or procure. It is true that some of 
the old sea captains and mill agents grumbled, in a quiet way, 
because there was no champagne ; but Eugene had resolved 
that the joyous occasion should not be a stumbling-block in 
the way of any man. 

At eleven o’clock the fire-kings were in their glory ; rock- 
ets, squibs, serpents, Bengal lights, and Roman candles, as 
well as whirligigs and set pieces, fizzed, banged, screamed, 
hissed, and blazed in every direction. The stars disappeared, 
and the floating clouds glowed with crimson lights. The 
air was redolent of smoke and sulphur. All Poppleton was 
excited to the highest pitch of ecstasy. Such fire and smoke, 
such lights and music, such wonderful dishes and astonish- 
ing pastry, such brilliant scenes and gorgeous displays, had 
never before been seen or known in the town. 

Some of the farmers from the Summerville road estimated 
that twenty thousand dollars would not cover the expenses 
of the evening ; that half a dozen good farms were eaten up 
and drank up, fizzled away and flirted away, in six hours’ 
time. They did not add that all the money went into the 
hands of merchants, mechanics, artists, and laborers, and 
that some portion, of it doubtless went into the half dozen 
farms. It was an awfully extravagant affair, and they re- 
garded it as so much money out of pocket. So it was to 
Eugene ; but what goes out of one pocket goes into another , 
and as he could unquestionably afford the expense, it was 
only so much money transferred from his exchequer to the 
33 * 


390 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


purses of those who needed it more than he did. The old 
farmers from the Summerville road took a one-sided view 
of the matter. 

At half past eleven, the bridal party, groom and grooms- 
men, bride and bridesmaids, took candages at the door, and 
went to the Mills, where a special train was waiting for 
them. The festivities continued at Pine Hill till two o’clock 
in the morning. At one o’clock the party were in Boston. 
They were absent a fortnight on the bridal tour. On their 
return to Poppleton, the current of life began to roll on as 
before — yet not as before, for Eugene and Mary were one 
now, and it was a new life. The loving wife was duly 
installed in her new position as the mistress of the Pine Hill 
mansion. The dignity sat easily upon her, and every day 
was a day of joy. 

Dick Birch was a member of the family, and Dr. Lynch, 
still hopeful, was a constant visitor. Julia did not permit 
him again to plead his suit before her. She treated him 
with the utmost consideration and kindness ; but she avoided 
every appearance which was liable to misconstruction. 

Eugene was married. The first step towards acquiring 
the three millions, now in trust, had been taken. After all 
doubts in regard to the first marriage of Mary had been 
removed from the minds of others, Dick Birch had ceased 
to reason with his friend upon the impropriet}' of making 
her Mrs. Hungerford. Doubtless he would still have opposed 
the marriage, if there had been any hope of preventing it. 
Eugene was determined ; his mother and sister favored his 
wishes, and Dr. Lynch absolutely urged it with the strongest 
arguments which could be presented to a willing mind. 

Dick had not been selfish. When he had been compelled 
to expose his hopes of winning Julia, an insurmountaldc 
barrier had been raised up before him. He was virtually 
accused of seeking her for the sake of her contingent half 
million, an 1 he had solemnly resolved never to think of her 
again until Eugene was married, even if she was forever lost 


THE RUSTIC BRIDGE. 


391 


to him by the delay. He had kept his vow, as far as such 
a vow could be kept. He loved her, and concealed his 
thoughts and feelings. He had prudently avoided every 
demonstration which could incline her to favor his suit. 
Though he had been a member of the family since the trial 
of Ross Kingman, he had seldom spent an evening in the 
sitting-room with the family. 

The marriage of Eugene had removed his disability. He 
could not now be accused, even by the most invidious critic, 
of loving her for her fortune. On the bridal tour, he had 
been more sociable with her ; but Julia appeared to be very 
impartial between him and the doctor. Since the return of 
the party, he was often by her side. Little attentions were 
more profuse than before ; but Dr. Lynch was in his way. 
Contrary as it may appear to human experience, he cher- 
ished no ill will towards his rival. If Julia preferred the 
doctor to himself, justice and generosity to her required that 
he should be magnanimous. 

Dick’s term of probation had passed away, and his affec- 
tion gathered power as the obstacles were removed. He 
had not ceased to love her since they resided together in the 
cottage of James Hungerford. He had not concealed his 
love ; he had even been compelled to proclaim it in public. 
He was ready to speak now ; and when the party returned 
to Pine Hill, he had begun to watch for his opportunity. 

It was a bright June day, and the garden was in the flush 
of its summer beauty. Dick had taken his early morning 
walk through the estate, and on his return he met Julia. 
She wore her morning dress. She was in easy costume ; 
and Dick thought she had never looked so beautiful, though 
it is quite probable she always had. He had been thinking 
of her, and very likely he was in condition to be peculiarly 
enthusiastic. 

“ Good morning, Dick ” — she always called him so, 
except in the presence of strangers. “Have you finished 


39 ^ 


THE WAY OP THE WORLD. 


your morning ramble? No matter if you have; you must 
come with me.” 

“ With the greatest pleasure. I like to walk here ; with 
you it will be a double satisfaction.” 

“ Were you ever in Ireland, Dick?” 

“ Never.” 

“ I thought you had been.” 

“ Why, Julia?” 

“ I judged so from the remark you made — a double satis- 
faction ! You must have been to Cork ; you must have 
kissed the blarney stone.” 

“ I think I could kiss something nearer home that would 
give me the persuasive tongue.” 

“Why, Dick! I am positively afraid of you,” laughed 
she. 

“ I assure you I am entirely harmless.” 

“You talk like a Spanish gallant this morning. What is 
the matter with you? What has come over you? Have you 
been reading Don Quixote ? ” 

“ No ; I have only been thinking of you.” 

“ Thinking of me ! I thought you never indulged in triv- 
ial reflections. But I have a very serious matter to pro- 
pose.” 

“ So have I.” 

“ You I ” 

“ I have, but of course it is your right to be heard first.” 

“ Do you know that it was very stupid of you not to thi: 
of a rustic bridge when you were making these grounds ? ” 
replied she, evidently gathering some intimation of the sub- 
ject of Dick’s intended discourse from his looks. 

“ I am glad I was so stupid.” 

“ This is rebellious.” 

“ By no means. It is a happy reflection now, that every- 
thing was not done in the beginning.” 

“Why, Dick?” 


THE RUSTIC RRIDGE. 393 

Because the neglect has given you a thought, and afford- 
e<l me this opportunity.” 

“What opportunity?” she asked, turning away to hide 
her confusion. 

“ The opportunity to do what you wish me to do — build 
a bridge, if that is what you desire.” 

“ That is what I desire. This way, Dick ; I propose to 
!'uild the bridge over the brook — not over the river.” 

“ Over both, if you wish.” 

“ How complaisaiV, you are, Dick ! Why can’t you be a 
little obstinate, and tAi me that a bridge cannot be built ; 
that it would spoil the grounds ; that it wouldn’t be safe, or 
something of that kind? This is the place. You ought to 
have put a rustic bridge here, instead of such a one as the 
stupid county commissioners would put over the river.” 

“ Have you made a plan of what you desire?” 

“ A plan ! Do you think I could be guilty of such an 
absurdity as drawing a plan? ” 

“ How shall I know what you wish, then?” 

“ I said a rustic bridge ; you know what that is. I leave 
all the details to you.” 

“ It shall be commenced to-day.” 

“You are very obedient.” 

“ I intend to be. I will build you a bridge ; but Julia ” 

He paused, and looked her in the face — only a glance, 
then gazed upon the ground. 

“ But what? Are you going to tell me it is impossible, 
now you have promised to do it?” 

“ Not at all ; but if I build a bridge for you, Julia, you 
must build one for me.” 

“ I am not a bridge builder.” 

“ Neither am I.” 

“ What do you mean, Dick?” 

“ T find myself on the wrong side of the river.” 

“ The wrong side? ” 

“ I am on one side, and you are on the other.” 


594 


THE WAY OP THE WORLD. 


“ Ai e you demented ? ” 

As sane as a man in my condition can be.” 

“ Pray, what do you mean by your condition?” 

“ In love.” 

“ Poor fellow ! Thaf s a serious malady to some people.” 

“ Very serious to me, if you refuse to build me the 
bridge.” 

“Has Susey Perkins stolen your heart?” stammered 
Julia, struggling to recover her self-possession. 

“Julia, I love you ! ” 

“ Why, Dick ! I wonder those words did not choke 
you.” 

“ They will, I am afraid, if you laugh at me. Sit down 
on this bench, Julia, and we will see how the bridge will 
look when it is done,” said he, taking her by the hand, and 
conducting her to the seat. 

She did not resist, and he seated himself by her side. He 
said something more about the bridge, and described to her 
the structure he intended to erect, if she was pleased with 
the idea. 

“ Will you build my bridge, Julia? ” 

“ That is a very blind figure, and I don’t understand it.” 

“ The bridge upon which I may pass from doubt and 
uncertainty to joy and peace. I need not tell you, Julia, 
how long I have loved you.” 

“ I don’t think you love me, Dick ; it is only a spasm ; 
you will recover in a week,” laughed she. 

“ You doubt my words.” 

“ How can I help doubting them?” 

“ Why should you doubt them ? ” 

“For more than a year you have been hardly sociable as 
a friend.” 

“ You know the reason. It would have been mean for 
me to press my suit before my character was vindicated.” 

“ But since that? ” 


THE RUSTIC BRIDGE. 


395 


“ My vnotives were liable to misconstruction. Eugene is 
married now ” 

“ Don’t say a word about those disagreeable matters, 
Dick. They are loathsome to me. I used to think before 
I went to Europe, and while I was there, that you were just 
a little fond of me.” 

“ Not a little, for I loved you with all my soul, Julia.” 

“ Not since I returned?” 

“ Every moment of the time since I first came to Pop- 
pleton.” 

“ But you have been so cold and distant since the trial I ” 

“ There was good reason for that.” 

“What?” 

“ Dr. Lynch.” 

“What of him?” 

“ If you love him better than me, I have no right to com- 
plain, and I will not. I did not, at any time, wish to step 
between you and him.” 

“ You were very prudent.” 

“ For your sake I was.” 

“ Why are you less considerate now? ” 

“ I do not perceive that you are any more partial to him 
than to me.” 

“ I am not, Dick.” 

He looked at her; he took her hand, but she gently 
released it from his grasp. 

“Julia, I love you with all my soul. My fate is in your 
hands.” 

“ That is very dramatic.” 

“ You mock me.” 

“ I cannot really determine, Dick, whether to be serious 
or not.” 

“ I am so.” 

“ I will not laugh again — if I can help it. 
what fo say.” 

“ There is one thing you can say.” 


I don’t know 


596 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ What is that?” 

“ Whether you love me or not.” 

“ I don’t know whether to say that or not.” 

“You know whether you do love me or not.” 

“ Perhaps I don’t,” replied she, musing. “ You have 
never given me an opportunity to love you ; or, at least, to 
find out whether I did or not. Do you think, Dick, that 
ladies fall in love with gentlemen just as they do with new 
bonnets, without any excuse for doing so ? ” 

“ Not often.” 

“ Sometimes they do, I grant ; but I am not so im- 
pulsive.” 

“ Do you dislike me, Julia?” 

“ Very far from it ; indeed, I like you very much.” 

“ Then will you be my wife?” 

“ I am not prepared to answer you now. You have been 
60 distant that I do not yet know my own heart.” 

“ If you will say that you do not love me ” 

“ You will be just as well satisfied,” interposed she. 

“You are cruel, Julia.” 

“ Do you wish to persuade me to say now that I do not 
love you ? ” 

“ If it be true, say so.” 

“ And what then ? ” 

“ I will never annoy you again.” 

“ You do not annoy me.” 

“ I am afraid I do.” 

“ Well, if you will have it so.” 

“ I will leave you ; I will leave Pine Hill, if you desire.” 

“ Now you are absurd ! ” 

“ I will not thrust myself into your presence.” 

“ You know I like you, Dick.” 

“ Like me ; but you do not love me.” 

“ You say that, not I.” 

“We are almost quarrelling, Julia.” 

“ You are ; I am not.” 


THE RUSTIC BRIDGE. 


397 


“ Let us be vei*}’ serious for a moment. If you do not love 
me, Julia, I have no reproaches for you. I should be greatly 
grieved, but not angry. If you do not love me, say so, I 
entreat you.” 

“ Dick, I’m afraid I do love you, just a very little.” 

‘‘Ah, Julia ” 

“ Only a very little.” 

“ I am satisfied, Julia.” 

“ I am not,” she added, apparently with a feeling that she 
had committed herself too far. “ I do not love you well 
enough to become your wife. You must wait, Dick. I 
think I have said enough.” 

“Not quite, Julia; yon have' not told me whether I may 
hope or not.” 

“ I can tell you that. I will not be the wife of any man 
unless I love him with all my mind, heart, and soul ; unless 
I can have perfect confidence that he has not now, and never 
will have, any other god than myself. I must be wholly 
his, and he must be wholly mine.” 

“ Then be wholly mine ! ” 

“Not yet can I say that. Marriage on any other terms 
than those I state would be absolutely loathsome to me.” 

“ It would to me ; but I could have no other god but 
you.” 

“ Perhaps not ; but we must wait.” 

“ May I hope? ” 

“ On your own responsibility you may — not on mine.” 

“ But you said you did love me a little.” 

“ A very little.” 

“ Will that little increase? ” 

“It may — it may not. If it does not, I can never be 
) our wife. You must not ask me to unsay what I have said. 
I have b?en sincere. There is my hand, Dick. We are the 
best of friends — let the future determine your fate and 
mine.” 


34 


398 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“You do not bid me cease to hope?” he said, taking the 
offered hand. 

“ No ; we are both free.” 

“ You are ; but I am not.” 

“What more can I say, Dick? This I will add — that 


“ Ahem ! ” 

Both of them started. Dr. Lynch stood hardly a rod dis- 
tant, looking at them. His face was flushed, and he appeared 
to be angry. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said he, advancing towards them. 

“ You are out early, doctor,” said Julia, striving to hide 
her confusion. 

“ Excuse me for inteiTupting you,” he replied, significant- 
ly ; “ but the nature of my business required me to do so.” 

“What has happened, doctor?” asked Julia. 

“ Captain Kingman had a bad turn this morning, and I 
was called in at five o^clock. I think he will not live through 
the day. Mrs. Hungerford is going down to the island. 
Mr. Hungerford desired to see Mr. Birch before he goes, 
and I volunteered to find him.” 

Dick, leaving Julia with Dr. Lynch, hastened to the 
house. 

“ I am very sorry to have disturbed you. Miss Hunger- 
ford,” said the doctor. 

“ You need not be at all disconcerted,” she replied, turn- 
ing away to hide her blushes. 

“You seemed to be very pleasantly employed,” he added, 
with something like a sneer. 

“You are rather cynical in your manner this morning, 
Dr. Lynch.” 

“ Pardon me, Miss Hungerford, but may I yet know 
\vLelher I am to be banished from your presence?” 

“ I shall never banish you, doctor.” 

“ Mr. Birch seems to be on excellent terms with you.” 

“ As he should be,” she answered with dignity. 



Dr. Bilks interrupts a Pleasant Interview. — Page 39^ 



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THE RUSTIC BRIDGE. 


399 


’* Do I annoy you ? ” 

“ Only when you refer to Mr. Birch.*’ 

“ Pardon my rudeness, Julia. I love you, and it does not 
improve my temper to see another so intimate with you. I 
have no right to feel so.” 

“You have not, certainly.” 

“ Will you answer me only one question?” 

“ If it is a proper one.” 

“ Must I cease to hope? ” 

“ You must hope or cease to hope with no aid from me. 
The circumstances have not perceptibly changed since we 
last spoke on this subject.” 

By this time they had reached the house. The doctor pro- 
fessed to be satisfied ; but he was not. 


400 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A HOMCEOPATHIC DOSE. 

C APTAIN KINGMAN died that day, as the doctor had 
predicted. Mary and Eugene stood by his dying bed ; 
and the daughter, forgetting all that he had been, and all 
that he had done of evil, ministered unto him as though he 
had been the best and truest of fathers. He was her parent, 
and there was not a wrong he had done which was not for- 
given. 

Mary wore the mourner’s garb now ; and no token of 
respect to a father’s memory was omitted by her or by her 
devoted husband. Captain Kingman had been a sufferer 
for a year, and during the last months of his life he had been 
an imbecile. He had passed away now, and it was best that 
it should be so. He was at rest after his stormy career. 

Eugene’s balance in the Poppleton Bank began to disturb 
him again. In spite of his best efforts to keep it within a 
reasonable limit, it continued to get the upper hands of him. 
His own wants were few and simple, measured by the 
means at his command. He was obliged to be very extrav- 
agant in order to dispose of twenty thousand dollars a year. 
He hoped to do better, however, the coming season ; but 
there was still a formidable balance in his favor, which, as 
the almoner of God’s bounty, it would be idleness and 
neglect to permit any longer to remain unused. 

“What shall I do, Mary?” said he to his wife, a week 
after the funeral. “ There is a large balance in the bank, 
and I feel as though I had not half done my duty.” 


A HOMCEOPATHIC DOSE. 


40 


“ Nobody else thinks so, Eugene,” she replied, putting her 
arm around his neck, and gazing with tender admiration 
into his face. 

“ Perhaps not ; but I do not judge myself by what others 
think. Can’t you help me, Mary ? ” 

“ I think I can.” 

“ Do.” 

“ I was thinking the other day that we might have a cem- 
etery here like Mount Auburn, Greenwood, or Laurel Hill.” 

“ I thank you, my dear, for the thought. It shall be com- 
menced at once. Do you think of any suitable locality ? ” 

When they went to ride that forenoon, they visited half a 
dozen places which might answer the purpose, and gave the 
preference to a tract of land beyond Pine Hill, between the 
river and the Summerville Road. The territory was pur- 
chased, and there was plenty of work for poor men in Pop- 
pleton that summer.- 

The building for the Poppleton Library was in a forward 
state, and the institution itself was in practical operation in 
temporary quarters. The books were circulating through 
the town, and the bowling alleys and billiard saloons af- 
forded recreation without expense to all who chose to use 
them. They were under the care of a good man ; were 
closed at ten o’clock ; and no gambling, drinking, profanity, 
or other improper speech, was tolerated. 

The amusements of the people were full of interest to 
Eugene ; for innocent recreations were so many preventives 
of vice. When a dozen young men would form a club, and 
adopt certain necessary regulations — such as prohibiting 
intoxicating drinks, profanity. Sabbath breaking — in the 
association, he presented them a boat, and provided them 
with a building, uniforms, and other appliances. Four of 
these clubs were formed at the Port, and three at the Mills ; 
the latter navigating the pond above the dam. 

At Mary’s suggestion, sundry thousands were given to 
various associations in the d’ty, whose object was the moral 
34 * 


4^02 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


social, and religious improvement of the race ; and thus 
Eugene’s charities bfigan to extend beyond Poppleton. 
What he gave in this way was always contributed secretly. 
He made a literal application of the Scriptural injunction 
not to let the left hand know what the right hand doeth. If 
he had any vanity to be known in connection with his liberal 
gifts, he deemed it a duty to exorcise the feeling. A letter, 
enclosing a draft for ten thousand dollars, to the treasurer of 
an association having for its object the wider diffusion of 
Christianity, contained these remarkable words ; “ I desire 
to remain unknown in connection with this gift. It is the 
Lord’s money, though I give it. To Him give the glory, 
not to me. If, by the postmark of my letter, or other means, 
you should discover my name, you are positively prohibited 
from making it known. If you should disregard this in- 
junction, all future donations will be withheld.” 

It was not disregarded. He did not choose secrecy for 
the purpose of being found out, and to give an additional 
halo to the deed. He was sincere. If he ever thought how 
pleasant it would be to be known as a munificent benefactor 
of the race, a liberal patron of Christian enterprise, he re- 
garded the sentiment as unworthy of him, and adhered to 
his fixed rule from principle, not affectation. 

The present balance was happily disposed of, with Mary’s 
cordial cooperation, and Eugene was at peace with himself. 
But he did not look upon giving as his whole duty. He 
went among the poor himself, with his loving wife upon his 
arm. In actual contact with them, he studied their needs. 
He gave with his own hand. He went to church at the 
chapel every Sunday with his wife, his mother, and his sis- 
ter ; and he did not occupy an extra-cushioned pew, but took 
such seats as were vacant. He was a member of several 
associations, and performed his duty as such with care and 
fidelity. As an Odd Fellow and a Mason, he watched with 
the sick himself, be the brother who needed his assistance 
rich or poor. It was suggested to him that he might hire a 


A HOMCEOPATHIC DOSE. 


403 


man to perform this sacred duty ; but he indignantly repelled 
the idea ; and even oftener than his turn came, he kept vigil 
at the bedside of the sick ; for, he said, he could better do it 
than those who had to work all day. Eugene was a Chris- 
tian in his own way. 

Not every man who went to Eugene Hungerford with a 
subscription paper was sure of a donation. He had very 
decided opinions ; and he was so ultra and strange as to be- 
lieve that it was almost as often necessary to withhold as it 
was to give. He was a decided man ; and certain pious, 
but narrow-minded, people denounced him because he de- 
clined to help forward their projects to make all men believe 
the same theology. He did not believe that theology w'ould 
save any man from his sins ; and while he would help to 
build a church for any denomination of Christians, he would 
not devote a penny to give one man’s creed the advantage 
over another’s. The good God would condemn no person 
for the errors of his belief, if he was a sincere and earnest 
seeker after the truth. 

Eugene had a belief precious to himself. It was not at 
all necessary that others should adopt it. He not only toler- 
ated, but respected, others’ creeds. What he gave, he gave 
for truth, rather than for the triumph of any human system ; 
for Christianity itself, rather than for the dogmas of men. 
It required no small degree of discretion and faith to dis- 
charge his duty, as he understood it ; and between Mary and 
himself there was much discussion upon these interesting 
questions ; for, fortunately for both, she was a thinking wo- 
man, as he was a thinking man. 

To these considerations of important topics Dick Birch 
and the other members of the family were freely admitted ; 
and not unfrequently Dr. Lynch took a part in them. The 
doctor was still a constant visitor at Pine Hill. He had not 
“ lost hope ; ” though, since he had surprised his rival in the 
garden, he could not help thinking that the battle was going 
against him. He was jealous. He hated Dick, though 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


404 

policy CDmpelled him to treat the oft'ender with the utmost 
apparent respect and esteem. 

Dick was certainly gaining ground. Now that Julia un- 
derstood him, he found his path more flowery. She oftener 
placed herself in his way, oftener took his hand when she 
got into or out of the carriage. He was bold enough to 
press it ; and once he was surprised and delighted to feel a 
slight return. Then it was constantly replied to ; and Dick 
was almost ready to speak again, to propose once more. 

Dr. Lynch could not help noticing this increasing tender- 
ness. It was fatal to his hopes. Julia was kind to him, had 
not remitted a particle of the gratitude she owed him ; but 
his rival was winning the prize. If it had been possible to 
bring Dick into disrepute again he would have done it ; but 
a word against Dick was treason against the whole family. 
Something must be done. He loved her ; whatever he was, 
he loved her with all his soul. If he had any ambitious 
schemes, they were secondary to the possession of her. 

“ Something must be done. I am losing ground. One 
half million is safe ; the other is almost beyond my reach ; 
but, worse than this, I shall lose Julia herself,” muttered the 
doctor to himself, as he left Pine Hill one evening. “ I would 
rather have her than all of John Hungerford’s money.” 

He got into his sulky, and drove off, stung by the madness 
of disappointment, and fully resolved that something should 
be done. To the pangs of a love growing every day m.ore 
hopeless, add the prospect of half a million slipping from 
his grasp, and the feeling of Dr. Lynch is described. If 
there was much that was good in him, — as there is in all 
men, — there was much that was bad — base and wicked be- 
yond the comprehension of an honest man. Those at Pine 
Hill were pure Christian men and women. They v/ere 
trusting, confiding, unsuspicious. They could not fathom 
the depth of evil in the honored guest, the beloved physician. 
He had sinned and been forgiven. They knew his capacity 
for evil ; but to them he was like the tranquil summer sea, 


A HOMCEOPATHIC DOSE. 405 

which the storms of winter lash into fury, and make the most 
treacherous of elements. 

Dr. Lynch went to Pine Hill the next day. He sat in the 
sitting-room with the family, giving his opinion in regard to 
the sanitary effects of bathing, called forth by a project of 
Eugene’s to erect a bathing establishment in each of the 
two villages. Dick Birch entered while he was- there. He 
looked paler than usual, which the quick eye of Julia 
promptly detected. 

“ Are 3"ou ill, Dick? ” she asked, in a tone so tender that 
the doctor wished he could be sick himself, in order to be 
spoken to so fondly. 

“ No ; not ill ; I have the headache,” replied Dick, press- 
ing his hand to his forehead. 

“Can I do anything for you?” continued Julia. “Let 
me bathe your head in cologne.” 

“ Thank you, Julia ; it is hardly necessary that anything 
should be done,” replied Dick, with a grateful smile. 

“ Let me prescribe for you, Mr. Birch,” interposed Dr. 
Lynch. 

“ No, I thank you ; I don’t believe in your system, 
doctor,” laughed Dick. 

He went to the library, anjJ presently returned with a little 
vial filled with small globules. 

“ This is m3" medicine for the headache,” he said, exhibit- 
ing the vial. 

“ What is it?” asked the doctor, 

“ Belladonna.” 

Dr. Lynch laughed heartily, ind indulged in some sharp 
strictures upon homoeopathy ; called it a humbug and a de- 
lusion. 

“ One thing is certain, doctor,” replied Dick, as he swal- 
lowed half a dozen of the globules, “ either homoeopathy is 
true as a medical science, or all medicines are unnecessary.” 

“ That is a rather violent conclusion.” 

“ I have taken no medicine but these globules for ten 


4o6 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


years, except a blue pill you prescribed for me last summer $ 
and I was a fool to take that.” 

“ Because you have not been very sick.” 

“ Yes, I had a fever four years ago.” 

“ Then you got well in spite of your medicine, not on 
account of it.” 

“ But it proves that medicine was not necessary, if it does 
not show that my system is correct.” . 

Dick mentioned a dozen desperate cases, where patients 
had been saved by homoeopathy, and the doctor mentioned 
two dozen, given up by homoepathic practitioners, who had 
been cured by allopathy. As usual in such cases, nothing 
was established. 

“ Doctor, my headache is gone,” said Dick, triumphantly, 
after the three dozen cases had been adduced. 

“ Do you suppose the belladonna had anything to do with 
it?” asked the doctor. 

“ Of course I do. I am satisfied the globules cured me 
this time as they have twenty times before.” 

“ Nonsense, Mr. Birch ! I should not hesitate to take the 
entire contents of your vial.” 

“ That is the beauty of the system ; if it does not cure, it 
does not kill.” 

“ If there is no virtue in the medicine, what is the use of 
taking it?” laughed the doctor. 

“ Fire won’t burn water. It is the nice adaptation of the 
medicine to the system which gives it efficiency. If you 
are well, there is no work for the medicine. If you are sick, 
it finds something in the system for which it has an affinity.” 

“ All bosh ! ” 

“ Why don’t you try the system before you condemn it? ” 

“ Try it ! Why don’t I try the spells of the Indian medi« 
cine men? the charm of the Hottentot? the vagaries of mes- 
merism and spiritualism ? Simply because I don’t believe in 
them. Why don’t I try a hangman’s rope for scrofula? ” 

“ There is reason in all things.” 


A HOMCEOPATHIC DOSE. 407 

“ In everything but homoeopathy. Do you believe those 
little pellets cured your headache ? ” 

“ I do.” 

“ What a delusion ! ” 

What did then?” 

“ I don’t know. Perhaps you had reached the end of the 
malady when you took the pills; perhaps a change of air 
cured you ; perhaps it was the excitement of this discussion, 
which started your blood, removed some stagnation, and re- 
stored the equilibrium of the circulation.” 

‘‘ Excitement does not generally cure the headache,” said 
Dick, incredulously. 

“ Sometimes it does. About a week ago, a man came to 
my office at daylight in the morning to have a tooth extracted. 
He had been in agony all night ; but the moment he saw my 
instrument his toothache left him, and he would not have 
the tooth taken out. What cured him ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Perhaps it was the smell of belladonna in my office ! It 
was the excitement. If one of your friends — Miss Hunger- 
ford, for instance — were dangerously sick, as she was last 
summer, would you trust her in the hands of a professor of 
this humbug? ” 

I would trust her in the hands of a skilful homoepathic 
physician.” 

“ Would you trust yourself to such treatment. Miss Hun- 
gerford?” 

“ I am entirely satisfied with my physician, doctor, and I 
am not competent to give an opinion,” replied Julia. 

In the library, half an hour later, the doctor picked up the 
bottle of globules, and examined them for a moment. He 
took a couple of the pellets, and restored the vial to its place. 
He looked strange as he did so ; perhaps he was indignant 
that sensible men should have faith in such puny helps. 

The next day he called, in the afternoon. Eugene and 
Pick were both out, but Parkinson said they would return in 


4o8 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


a short time. The doctor would wait in the library ; there 
was a book there he wished to examine. But the book 
seemed to have less interest than the vial of homoeopathic 
globules. Dr. Lynch kept the bottle a few moments, and 
returned it to the j^l^ice where he had found it, but with its 
contents changed. There was something diabolical in the 
looks of the doctor as he restored the medicine. lie sal 
down in an arm-chair ; he took up a book, but he did not 
read it. He turned the leaves, but his thoughts were else- 
where. 

The carriage stopped at the front door. Eugene and Dick, 
with the ladies, had just returned from a visit to the new 
cemetery. Dr. Lynch rose from his chair, and went into the 
sitting-room. He paused before the looking-glass. Was he 
pale? was there any change in his countenance or his ex- 
pression ? 

“ Waiting for us, doctor?” said Eugene. 

“ Only a few moments. I have just come. How do you 
do to-day. Miss Huugerford? ” 

“ Pretty well ; but I have a headache. I believe when 
Dick lost his yesterday, it passed to me, for I have had one 
ever since,” replied Julia. 

“ Let me cure it for you, Julia ! ” exclaimed Dick, as he 
rushed into the library, returning with the vial of globules. 

If the doctor had looked in the glass now, he might have 
seen that his face was deadly pale. 

“ Here, Julia, take half a dozen of these. I am sure they 
will cure you,” added Dick, as he removed the cork from 
the bottle. 

“ No, no ! ” cried the doctor, with energy. “ Don’t take 
tliem. Miss Hungerford.” 

“Why not, doctor?” asked Dick, surprised at the em- 
phatic tones of the physician. 

“ They will injure her,” gasped the doctor. 

His ashen face and pallid lips attracted the attention of all 
in the room. 


A homceopathic dose. 409 

“ Yesterday you said you would be willing to take the 
whole bottle full.” 

“ So I should, but I am not willing Miss Hungerford 
should take them. As her physician, I protest against her 
taking them,” replied the doctor, with a decision which 
seemed to be out of place in a matter of so little conse- 
quence. 

‘‘ I am not afraid to take them,” laughed Julia. “ If they 
w ill cure my headache, I should be very glad to swallow the 
whole vial full.” 

There was a little vein of opposition in her character, 
which prompted her to be obstinate in a case like the pres- 
ent ; and the doctor’s decided manner did hot please her. 
He had been her physician when she was sick ; but he was 
not with her just then in that capacity. His interference she 
regarded as rather tyrannical — as an assumption of power 
which she was not prepared to acknowledge. 

“ Give me the bottle, Dick,” said she. 

“ I don’t wish you to take them, if the doctor objects,” re- 
plied he, handing her the vial. 

“ I do object,” added Dr. Lynch. 

“ How many make a dose, Dick? ” 

“ Six.” 

“ Don’t take them. Miss Hungerford I ” exclaimed the 
doctor, rushing towards her. 

“ O, but I will, doctor, if it is only to plague you,” laughed 
she, retreating a step or two. 

“ Do not ! They will injure you.’' 

“ These harmless little things? ” 

“ They will, indeed.” 

“ You are afraid they will cure me, doctor, and you will 
lose an interesting patient.” 

“ No ; far from it. I never beg for patients.” 

She turned the bottle to pour some of the globules into her 
hand. 


35 


410 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“Have I no influence with you, Miss Hungerford? ** 
pleaded Dr. I.ynch. 

“ But these are harmless.” 

“ They are not harmless.” 

“ Mr. Birch takes them.” 

“ They are not harmless to you.” 

“ How pale you are, doctor I ” 

“ I am quite well.” 

“ Let me have them,” interposed Dick. 

“ But I am going to take some of them.” 

“ Don’t, Julia, since the doctor objects so strongly.” 

“ I will take them ! ” 

“ To please- me, Julia, do not.” 

She looked at him. Dick was pale now, as well as the 
doctor. What had been a pleasant frolic seemed suddenly 
to have become a very serious affair. Dick’s lips quivered. 
What was the matter? 

“ Give them to me, Julia,” said the doctor. 

“ Of course I will not take them if you all object,” said 
she. 

“ Give me the bottle,” repeated Dr. Lynch. 

But Dick Birch took it out of her hand, and put it in his 
pocket. 

“ I think my headache is better,” said Julia. “ It must 
have been the odor from the vial that cured me.” 

Dick looked intensely troubled ; so did the doctor. Each 
gazed at the other. It appeared as though the old doubts, 
the old suspicions, had been suddenly revived. The ladies 
went up stairs, and the gentlemen retired to the library, 
Dick going directly to the office. 

“ Mr. Birch, I hope you will pardon my apparent rude- 
ness,” said the doctor, as Dick joined them. 

“ Don’t mention it, doctor ; you are very careful of your 
patients,” replied Dick. 

“ I always intend to be. Will you allow me to examine 
those globules ? ” 


A HOMCEOPATHIC DOSE. 


411 


“ I hope you will pardon my apparent rudeness if 1 re- 
fuse,” replied Dick. 

His answer filled Eugene with consternation, for it cer- 
tainly boded a quarrel. 

“ If six of those globules cured your headache yesterday, 
they are not a safe medicine for a delicate female. I should 
like to analyze those pellets.” 

“ I meant no offence, doctor,” replied Dick. 

“ I took none.” 

“ Do you really wish for the bottle? ” 

“ I do — for the purpose I stated.” 

“ You shall have it. I put it in the office. 1 will go 
for it.” 

Dick went to the office. On the desk lay the vial. He 
poured out the globules into a paper, and refilled it from a 
larger vial taken from the desk. He rolled up the pellets in 
the paper, and put them in his pocket. Returning to the 
library, he handed the bottle to the doctor, who soon after 
took his leave. 

“ That was a great excitement to grow out of a small 
affair,” said Eugene. “ I hope you wdll not discuss medical 
topics again.” 

“ Not so small an affair as it might have seemed,” replied 
Dick, as he left the house. 


THK WAY OP THE WORLP. 


41 • 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


CRIMINAL CARELESSNESS. 



ICK BIRCH soon returned to the house with a small 


covered basket in his hand, which he placed on the 
table in the library. He then brought from the dining-room 
a white plate, on which he deposited one of the homoeopathic 
globules, and divided it into minute fragments. On one of 
these particles, with the pointed end of a glass pen-holder, 
he dropi^ed an infinitessiinal portion of strong sulphuric 
acid, a vial of which happened to be among the chemical 
stores of the library. Dick was not a practical chemist, and 
not a very skilful manipulator. Several times he referred to 
a volume, open on the table, foi information ; but evidently 
he was not laboring to advance the cause of science. 

He watched the experiment with as much interest as the 
philosophers of old watched the crucible in which the baser 
metals were to be transmuted to pure gold. He was anxious 
and troubled. The result of his chemical investigations was 
almost certain to create a storm at Pine Hill. While he was 
thus engaged, Eugene entered the library. 

“ What are you about, Dick? What in the world are you 
going to do ? ” he asked. 

“ I am trying an experiment,” replied Dick, as calmly as 
he could speak. 

“ I was not aware before that you had any special taste 
for chemical science.” 

“ I have not.” 

“ What are you doing, then?" 


CRIMINAL CARELESSNESS. 


“ Do you see this plate ? ” said the operator, pointing to 
the spot on the plate where he had deposited the acid. 

“ I see it.” 

“ I put a drop of sulphuric acid on one of the white par- 
ticles. It was of a violet-blue color ; now it is a mulberry- 
purple ; let us wait.” 

“ Now it is a light red,” added Eugene, when the spot 
again changed its color. “ Dick, this is strychnia.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ What is the experiment? What are you doing this 
for?” 

“You see these?” continued Dick, in great agitation, as 
he took the paper of globules from his pocket. 

“ I see them.” 

“ They are tlie globules which I offered to Julia ! ” gasped 
Dick. 

“ Well, what of it?” 

“ I put one of them on the plate, and added a minute 
diop of sulphuric acid to a particle of one of them.” 

“ What do you mean? ” 

“I mean that these globules are pure strychnia — the 
globules that I offered to Julia.” 

“ Merciful Heaven ! ” exclaimed Eugene, turning pale at 
the thought. “ But you take them yourself.” 

“ I never took any of these. If I had, I should have been 
in your new cemetery before this time,” replied Dick, with a 
ghastly ^smile. 

“ Why don’t you speak, Dick, and tell me what you 
mean,” said Eugene, impatiently. “ Of course I don’t 
believe you offered those globules to Julia, knowing them 
to be strychnia.” 

“ I endeavored to persuade her to take them.” 

“ You did, and Dr. Lynch protested.” 

“ Why did he protest? He knew they were strychnia ; I 
did not. Neither the doctor nor m) -elf intended to poison 
Julia — that is plain enough.” 

35 * 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ He knew, and you did not,” repeated Eugene. ‘‘ How 
should he know ? ” 

‘‘ Because he poured out the globules of belladonna from 
my vial, and substituted globules of strychnia for my especial 
benefit.” 

“ O, no, Dick. That is too horrible ! ” 

“ The globules were belladonna yesterday ; to-day they are 
strychnia. Who takes the medicine from the bottle on 
the table? No one but myself. Did I intend to commit 
suicide? ” 

“ It is diabolical, Dick.” 

“ Who wanted the bottle? Who wanted to analyze the 
globules? Who was pale and trembling? Who protested 
so violently, and even rudely, against Julia’s taking the inno- 
cent pellets? ” 

“ You mean that Dr. Lynch intended ” 

‘‘ Intended to poison me ! ” added Dick, when his friend 
paused, unable to give breath to the horrible thought. “ That 
is precisely what he intended to do.” 

“ He saved Julia.” 

“ Thank God, he did ! ” said Dick, feiwently. He did 
not mean to poison her.” 

“ Why should he wish to poison you?” 

“ I am in his way. Why did he involve me in falsehood, 
— perjury ? ” 

“ I thought he had repented.” 

‘‘ So did I. I would have tnisted him with all I hold 
dear on earth an hour ago. Hungerford, on the day that 
Captain Kingman died, the doctor surprised Julia and myself 
in the garden. He was not pleased with the discovery he 
had made.” 

“ But his manner towards you has not changed.” 

“No, it has not. We are certainly rivals, but I have 
scorned to seek any advantage over him. I have left the 
matter entirely in the hands of Julia. I was willing she 
should lecide between us.” 


CRIMINAL CARELESSNESS. 


415 

“ Has she decided?” 

“ No ; but, Hungerford, I think I have been gaining, while 
the doctor has been losing. But never mind these things. 
Let us look at the naked facts.” 

“ Are you sure that Dr. Lynch put the poison into the 
bottle ? ” 

“ Who else could have done it? ” 

“ I don’t know ; but before we accuse a man of a crime 
of this magnitude, we must be sure.” 

“ We need not accuse him. We may not be able to prove 
it, though we shall be satisfied of the fact. Nobody has 
been poisoned. He prevented Julia from taking the medi- 
cine. If he had not done so, — if she had taken the globules 
and died, — I should have been accused of a great crime, or 
criminal carelessness. We can prove nothing.” 

“ Not yet.” 

Eugene pulled the bell, and Parkinson answered the sum- 
mons. The man was questioned in regard to the doctor’s 
movements, after he was admitted to the house. He had 
gone into the library ; that was all Parkinson knew. Eugene 
sent for the ladies. 

“What are you going to do, Hungerford?” asked Dick. 

“I am going to expose the villain.” 

“ Is that advisable? ” 

“ The wretch shall never cross my threshold again ! ” 
replied Eugene, with emphasis. 

“ It would hardly be wise to make this matter public.” 

“Why not?” 

“ We have not sufficient evidence to convict him.” 

“ Perhaps not ; but if there is, he shall be punished. He 
that would poison one man for his own interest, would 
poison another. We have a public duty to perform. We 
must protect the community from such a man.” 

“What can we prove? Only that the vial contained 
globules of strychnia. We can believe it, but there is not a 
particle of direct evidence to prove that Dr. Lynch put them 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


416 

there. He was in the room alone ; he protested when Julia 
was about to take them. Public opinion would be divided 
in regard to his guilt. I should be accused of attempting to 
put him out of my way ; he certainly would not be con- 
victed of the attempt to kill, and possibly would become 
more popular on his persecution, as some would call it.” 

“ But this is placing expediency before justice.” 

“ You must believe in many wrongs which it is absolutely 
quixotic to attempt to redress publicly. We will look for 
evidence ; if we find it, we will act accordingly.” 

The ladies entered the library. 

“Julia, Dr. Lynch is an unmitigated villain!” said 
Eugene. 

“ Not so bad as that, I hope,” replied she, startled at the 
announcement. 

Eugene took the plate, repeated and explained the experi- 
ment which had been performed before. Dick now prepared 
a solution, in which one of the suspected globules was used, 
he extreme bitterness of which was a second and most con- 
vincing proof of the strychnia nature of the substance tested. 
A live frog was taken from the covered basket, and his body 
and hind legs immersed in the liquid. Though none of the 
poison was taken into the stomach of the animal, that which 
was absorbed through the skin produced convulsions, and 
the experiment resulted in death. This third test conclu- 
sively established the poisonous nature of the pellets. 

The facts in regard to the globules were duly presented, 
and those who had observed the doctor’s pale face, quivering 
lip, and trembling knees, realized the meaning of his ener- 
getic protest. He was convicted by that interested group. 
The ladies were sick with horror. The idol was broken ; 
the demigod of Pine Hill was dethroned and cast out. They 
were all iconoclasts at Pine Hill. 

“ What a terrible man he is ! ” said Julia, shuddering, as 
she walked out of the library with Dick. 


CRIMINAL CARELESSNESS. 417 

“ I tremble when I think that I waS pressing you to take 
tt.ose globules,” said he. 

“ It is horrible ! ” 

‘‘ If the doctor had rot been here you m.ght have taken 
them.” 

“ I certainly should ; I was on the point of taking them as 
it was.” 

“ He adopted a very careless method of poisoning me. 
The vial always lies on the table in the library, and any 
person might have partaken of its contents. He deserves to 
be hanged for his carelessness, if not for his crime.” 

After tea Dick walked down to the Port, and paid a visit 
to the doctor, whom he found in liis office. 

“ Ah, good evening, Mr. Birch ; I am happy to see you, 
as I always am,” said the doctor. “ Have a cigar? ” 

“ Thank you ; I don’t like your cigars. Doctor, have you 
that little bottle of globules I gave you ? ” 

“ Yes, here it is,” replied the wretch, taking the vial from 
his pocket, and handing it to his visitor. 

“ Do you really think these little pills would have harmed 
Julia?” 

“ I suppose they would not, but I was afraid of them. 
Miss Hungerford’s organisation is exceedingly delicate, as I 
have had occasion to know when administering medicines 
to her.” 

“ But you said, yesterday, that you would not object to 
taking the bottle full yourself, thereby intimating that there is 
no virtue whatever in them.” 

“ For a strong man, like you or me, no doubt they would 
be harmless.” 

“ Suppose you try them,” suggested Dick. 

“ Of course I should not object to taking them,” laughed 
Dr. Lynch, with one of his ghastly smiles. 

“ Oblige me by doing so.” 

“ Thank you ; I have no occasion to take them.” 

“You diink they f e harmless?” 


ij-lS THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

“ Certainly I do ; but I may be mistaken. I was quite 
unwilling to l.ave Julia take them, without being sure what 
they were, and how much medicinal virtue there might be 
in them. For this reason I wished to analyze them.” 

“ Won’t you oblige me by taking those?” said Dick, pour- 
ing out half a dozen of the globules into the palm of his 
hand. 

“ Excuse me, Mr. Birch ; I would rather not.” 

“ I only wish to know whether you believe what you 
say.” 

“ In regard to what I said, I may have been mistaken. 
After the miraculous cure they wrought upon you, I must 
conclude that I was mistaken.” 

‘‘ Won’t you indulge an old friend so far as to take these 
half dozen harmless pellets?” continued Dick, in the most 
insinuating tone. 

‘‘ I really cannot do so, Mr. Birch. I am opposed to 
homoeopathy on principle. I will not countenance the hum- 
bug in any way, shape, or fashion,” replied the doctor, elo- 
quently. 

“ Do you think they would harm me ? ” 

“You know best. You have taken enough of them to 
know what virtue they contain.” 

“ Are you willing I should take them in your office? ” 

“Am I willing? Of course I am. You are your own 
physician. I am not responsible for their effect upon you.” 

“ Should you advise me to take them? ” 

“ To be consistent with my own belief, I should advise you 
not to take them ; but you are not under my medical treat- 
ment.” 

“ Do you think they will harm me?” 

“ I advise you not to take them. Have you the head- 
ache?” 

“ No ; but I merely wish to prove, in defence of homoeopa- 
th} , that they are harmless,” replied Dick, as he tossnd the 
six globules into his mouth. 


CRIMINAL CARELESSNESS. 419 

The doctor started. He looked troubled for a moment, 
though he struggled to maintain his self-possession. He be- 
lieved the globules were pure strychnia. They were of the 
smallest size ; but there was poison enough in them to kill a 
mail in a few hours. Dick knew they were nothing but 
sugar of milk, with an infinitessimal mixture of belladonna. 
Dr. Lynch was agitated. Dick Birch was calm. 

“ Having taken half a dozen myself, to make sure they 
are harmless, I will go home and cure Julia’s headache with 
half a dozen more,” added Dick. 

“ Don’t give them to her,” protested the doctor. 

“ Why not? ” 

“ Don’t give them to her.” 

Why not?” 

" My patients must not be trifled with ! ” exclaimed the 
doctor, almost frantic at the idea of Julia’s taking the poison. 

“You are in earnest, doctor?” 

“ I am.” 

“ Do you think they are poison?” 

“ Of course they are not poison.” 

“ Why do you object?” 

Dr. Lynch, fearful that Dick would put his terrible threat 
into execution, entered into a long disquisition on the prac- 
tice of medicine, and the quality and effects of various drugs, 
evidently for the purpose of detaining him. Dick listened 
patiently, and to the surprise of the medical gentleman, he 
did not begin to exhibit any of the effects of the poison. 

“ Have a cigar, doctor? These are of the right sort,” said 
Dick, producing his, cigar-case. 

“ Excuse me. I must go and visit a patient now.” 

“And I will go up and cure Julia’s headache.” 

“ No. If you insist upon doing that, I shall go up to Pine 
Hill, and prevent her from taking them.” 

“You are unreasonable, doctor.” 

I have not analyzed the globules yet.” 

• When will you do so ? ” 


420 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ To-night, when I return. Give me the vial, Mr. Birch.'* 
“ I will give you part of them.” 

“ Give me the whole.” 

“ No ; I want part of them.” 

Dick defended his system for an hour longer, without 
being troubled even with the stomach-ache, very much to 
the surprise and disgust of his host. 

“ Mr. Birch, you will excuse me now ; for, really, I must 
visit my patient.” 

“ Very well. I will remain till you return.” 

“ But I must lock my office.” 

“ O, no ; I will keep office for you till you get back.” 

“ Really, Mr. Birch, it is after nine o'clock.” 

“ No matter for that.” 

“ I was up last night, and must retire as soon as I return.” 
“ Do you really wish to get rid of me?” 

“ Certainly not.” 

“ I think you do.” 

“ By no means.” 

“ Are you afraid I shall die of the poison ? ” 

“ What poison?” 

“ The globules.” 

“ Are they poison ? ” 

“ Don’t you think they are?” 

“ How should I know?” 

“ You ought to know. I see you object to having me die 
on your hands.” 

“ Do you intend to die?” 

“ Not if I can help it.” . 

“ What do you mean by poison? ” 

The doctor was ghastly pale. His hands trembled. 

“ Nothing,” replied Dick. 

“You spoke of poison,” stammered the doctor. 

“ Of course the globules are poison. Why did you object 
to Julia’s taking them if they are not.” 

“ You ought to know best.” 


CRIMINAL CARELESSNESS. 42 1 

I do know best, doctor. They are not poison. You 
need not be alarmed about me. I shall not die in your 
office.” 

“ I am not alarmed about you.” 

“ Yes, you are.” 

“ Why should I be?” 

“ Because you think I have taken poison ; but I have 
not.” 

“ You are a little wild to-night, Mr. Birch.” 

“ Dr. Lynch, I came down here for the purpose of ex- 
pressing my mind very freely to you, and for the purpose of 
delivering a message with which I was charged by Mr. 
Hungerford.” 

“ I am happy to hear anything you may have to say on 
your own account, or Mr. Hungerford’s,” answered the doc- 
tor, gasping for breath as he spoke. 

“ In the first place, let me speak for myself, and upbraid 
you for your criminal carelessness. You left that vial of 
strychnia globules on the table in the library, where nny one 
might have taken them, and been poisoned to death. You 
deserve to be hanged for a bungler, as you are ! If you wdshed 
to poison me, why didn’t you do it without exposing the lives 
of others. Why didn’t you take my life like a man, and not 
render half a dozen others liable to the fate you prepared 
for me ! Why, you careless wretch ! I came very near giving 
the poison to Julia. You have nearly taken her life, instead 
of mine. It was not my fault. I didn’t know you had sub- 
stituted strychnia for belladonna in my vial. The crime 
w’ould have been yours, not mine, if she had been sacrificed. 
Why didn’t you put the poison into my ice-cream? Wh\ 
didn’t you invite me to a banquet of arsenic, strychnia, and 
hydrocyanic acid? Doctor, you are a cowardly bungler, 
worthy the contempt of all decent assassins. I commend to 
your attention De Quincey ‘On Murder considered as one 
of the Fine Arts.’ ” 

“Mr. Birch, you are sarcastic,” said Dr. Lynch, with a 

36 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


42^ 

labored grin, which looked like the sepulchral smile of the 
staring skull that lay on a shelf in the office. 

I am nothing, if I am not more than that.” 

“Your words insinuate that I have been guilty of some- 
thing wrong.” 

“ Do they insinuate it? Don’t they charge it as plainly as 
words can express human thought? I say, directly and un- 
equivocally, that you have attempted to poison me.” 

“ Mr. Birch I ” exclaimed the doctor, springing to his feei, 
throwing back his head, and looking as dignified as a trem- 
bling man could look. 

“ I know what you are going to say. Don’t trouble your- 
self to say it.” 

“You accuse me of a crime at which the blood of an 
honest man creeps with horror.” 

“ And for that reason your blood does not creep with 
horror.” 

“ Mr. Birch, this is hard and cruel of you.” 

“ Don’t whine.” 

“ I speak as an innocent man,” continued the wretch, who, 
having faced the full force of the accusation, was now begin- 
ning to recover from the blow. “You charge me with a 
crime at which my soul revolts. You do not give me the 
particulars. You do not furnish me with a particle of evi- 
dence as to what you mean, and you ask me to defend my- 
self.” 

“ No, I don’t. More than that, I will furnish no particu- 
lars, and I will hear no defence.” 

“ Mr. Birch, this is very harsh, and very unchristian. I 
should at least be told of what I am suspected,” whined the 
culprit. 

“Suspected!” sneered Dick. “You are convicted and 
condemned.” 

“ Without being heard?” 

“ I have a message to deliver to you from Mr. Hunger- 
ford.* 


CRIMINAL CARELESSNESS. 


4^3 

“ I am ready to hear it.” 

“ He desires me to say that he positively and imperatively 
forbids your coming to Pine Hill again, under any circum- 
stances that can possibly occur.” 

“ This is very unjust and cruel,” groaned the doctor. 
“ Without a word of explanation, without an opportunity to 
remove any unfavorable appearance that may be urged 
against me ! ” 

“ Let me add, for myself, that, if you cross the boundary 
line between Pine Hill and the public highway, I will take 
the liberty to kick you off the premises.” 

“ I did not expect this from you, Mr. Birch.” 

“I have been so criminally indulgent towards you and 
your crimes that you had no right to expect it, I confess.” 

“ I may be called to Pine Hill as a physician.” 

“You will never be called there again as a physician. 
They would all die before they would see you.” 

“ Does Julia know of this?” 

“ She does.” 

“ And Mrs. Hungerford? ” 

“ And Mrs. Hungerford.” 

“ Is it possible they can treat me with so much harshness 
and injustice?” 

“ They fully concur with Mr. Hungerford and myself. 
Not one of them would walk on the same side of the street 
with you.” 

“lam human, and I will not attempt to conceal my grief 
and astonishment at the conduct of the Hungerfords.” 

“ Do you expect them to pet you again, as they did be- 
fore?” 

“ When they were sick, even unto death’s door, I dared 
not sleep. I watched with Mrs. Hungerford as though she 
had been my own mother ; with Julia, as though she had 
been my own sister. I was permitted to be of service to 
them. I labored night and day for them, as I would have 
done for my own salvation.” 


rim WAV OF THE woeld. 


424 


“ If you had labored half as hard for your own salvation 
as you did for them, you might have been worthy to stand 
in their presence now. Dr. Lynch, it was like breaking the 
heart-strings of Mrs. Hungerford and Julia to convict you of 
the intention to commit such an abominable crime as that 
you meditated. They were grateful to you for what you 
have done; they are so still; and tliey will remember your 
good deeds, and grieve that the evil in your nature over- 
shadowed the good. The blow is as heavy to them as to 
you ; but they cannot, and will not, tolerate the presence of 
a murderer.” 

“ A murderer, Mr. Birch ! ” 

“ I call things by their right names. Dr. Lynch.” 

“ I can understand your motives,” added the culprit, bit- 
terly. “ I have been a stumbling-block in your path, Mr. 
Birch, and you adopt this method of prejudicing Miss Hun- 
gerford against me.” 

“ I have nothing to say, doctor,” added Dick, with dignity. 

“ I am banished from Pine Hill ; but I shall defend my- 
self before the people, and explain why I am thus treated. 
This miserable charge which you have trumped up shall be 
understood by the community.” 

“ Am I to infer that you threaten me and others? ” 

“ If there is such a charge as you say, why don’t you take 
it to a court of justice ? ” 

“ I have nothing more to say about it. I think I have 
been sufficiently explicit.” 

“ But of course you intend to prosecute the matter legally.” 

“ I shall give no answer. I have discharged my whole 
duty to you and to the Hungerfords.” 

Dick put on his hat, and left the office, without even the 
ceremony of bidding the doctor good night. 

“ One hall million is gone, but the other is safe,” muttered 
the doctor, as he rose from his chair half an hour later, 
“ No matter ; they can prove nothing.” 


DICK BIRCH AND LADY. 


4^5 


CHAPTER XXXm. 

DICK BIRCH AND LADY. 

P Il'IE HILL could hardly be the same without Dr. Lynch 
that it had been with him ; but he went there no more. 
His name was not even mentioned after a few days ; by gen- 
eral consent all allusions to him were avoided. It was not 
pleasant to think of him, for his conduct had been loathsome. 
Eugene trembled when he thought of Julians escape from 
death by poison ; and he trembled when he thought of her 
escape from a union with the doctor, which had at least been 
possible, and which would have been worse than poison. 

This second treachery on the part of the late demigod of 
Pine Hill revived the remembrance of the first. The doc- 
tor’s penitence had been a deception. He had never even 
regretted his first failure to ruin Dick Birch, except so far 
as it subjected him to humiliation, and rendered his rival 
more powerful and dangerous than before. His purpose 
was to win the hand of Julia, and to this everything else had 
been made subservient. The occupants of the Pine Hill man- 
sion realized that the honored visitor, the beloved physician, 
had been a hypocrite ; even his devotion to Julia and her 
mother, in sickness, was grounded on a selfish policy. 
Though Dr. Lynch did love Julia with all the earnestness 
of which his vile nature was capable, he lost even the credit 
of this genuine sentiment. 

All the doctor’s base plans were not yet apparent to the 
Hungerfords ; and they could not perceive that he was actu- 
ated by any other motive than jealousy — the desire to 

36* 


4.26 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

possess Julia. There was but little prospect that he would 
inherit the contingent half million, as it appeared to them, 
and therefore the conduct of the doctor seemed to be less 
contemptible than it really was, as the sequel will show. 

Dick Birch and Eugene Hungerford supposed the doctor 
would not tamely submit to his banishment from Pine Hill. 
He loved Julia ; he had wooed her as an enthusiastic lover, 
though she doubted his affection. It was a cruel fate to be 
excluded from her presence, though it would have been the 
height of impudence for a man who had attempted to commit 
a murder to bestow another thought upon her. But the 
doctor was not like other men ; and the genius for treachery 
and deceit, which had carried him safely through his former 
trials, might again be called into action to explain away the 
poison, and to make peace with the Hungerfords on the ruin 
of Dick Birch. 

Dr. Lynch had threatened to appeal to the people — to the 
public sentiment of Poppleton — for his justiffcation. He 
was bold enough and unscrupulous enough to do so. It 
would be an easy thing for a man so powerful as the popular 
physician to make the people believe in his wrongs. He 
could readily persuade them that he was the victim of a con- 
spiracy ; that Birch, from jealousy, had invented the illusion 
of the poisoned globules. The fact that no legal steps had 
been taken by the family — that not even Dick Birch had 
publicly proclaimed the story — would operate in the doctor's 
favor. 

Eugene believed the wretch would resort to measures of 
this kind to vindicate himself. He was prepared for sueh 
action ; he was fully resolved that, when the doctor made 
his first move, he should be arrested, and the whole matter 
passed upon by a court of justice. It was true, a conviction 
could not be expected ; the doctor would escape upon a 
“ reasonable doubt,” for the evidence was entirely circum- 
stantial, and the connection between the parts was not per- 
fect. 


DICK BIRCH AND LADY. 


427 


But Dr. Lynch did not mention the subject. He drove 
furiously through the streets of Poppleton, as before ; he ate 
good suppers at the Bell River House, and was as popular 
as ever with the multitude. He did not even sneer when 
Dick Birch or the Hungerfords were alluded to ; he avoided 
all mention of them himself, but he spoke of them respect* 
fully when compelled to speak. Hungerford waited weeks 
and months for the development of the doctor’s plan of re- 
demption, assured that it was yet to come ; but there was 
not the slightest demonstration in that direction. If he had 
known what thoughts and purposes filled the mind of the 
demigod of Poppleton — as he still was — he would have 
been better prepared for his politic silence. 

It was not possible that men so prominent as Eugene and 
Dr. Lynch could wholly avoid each other, or that Dick could 
entirely escape the presence of his intended murderer. They 
met in public places — in the church, in town meeting, 
in the library, in the streets, and not unfrequently at the 
social gatherings of the two villages. They bowed to each 
other ; they even spoke upon indifferent topics when com- 
pelled to do so, and it was many weeks before the people 
discovered that the doctor had ceased to visit Pine Hill. The 
suiferer had the tact to explain everything in a plausible 
manner. He had given up Julia, and he left people to infer 
that his absence was caused by the severing of his relations 
with her. People were sorry for the doctor ; they thought 
he ought to marry Julia, if he loved her ; he was more popu- 
lar than Dick Birch, blunt, honest, and plain-spoken as the 
latter was, and they sympathized with the doctor. 

Eugene was not satisfied with himself, in the mean time. 
It was wicked to let such a man as Dr. Lynch play upon the 
credulity of the people — to pass himself off as an honest 
man. It was trifling with the justice of God and man to 
allow a murderer at heart to go at large, to be petted by the 
public, to become the joy and the solace of young and innocent 
maidens, as well as old men and decrepit women ; to be the 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


428 

counsellor, guide, and friend of all. It was true that his 
conduct, so far as was known, was unexceptionable ; even 
the ministers, who thought the doctor was rather “ fast,” did 
not believe he was a bad man. 

Eugene was troubled, and felt that he himself, as well as 
the doctor, stood in a false position. He could not avoid the 
conclusion that it was his duty to expose the hypocrite, and 
it required all of Dick Birch’s logic and eloquence to keep 
him quiet. Mrs. Hungerford and Julia, in their gratitude to 
the skilful and devoted physician, would not have the doctor 
injured. They reasoned that, if exposed, he would lose all 
incentives to even an outwardly correct life ; the simple facts, 
if proved, would ruin him, and cast loose upon the world all 
the evil propensities of his nature. Dick, as a lawyer, rea- 
soned that the evidence was fatally deficient, and it would be 
demoralizing to the public conscience to exhibit a crime 
which could not be proved. Instead of sustaining the majes- 
ty of justice, the exposure would tend to bring it into con- 
tempt. A crime was to be alleged, but not proved. 

The culprit had been in the library where the globules 
were kept; he had protested when they were ofiered to 
Julia. He alone could have known that the pellets were 
poison, which satisfied the family of his guilt. But the doc- 
tor was a bitter enemy of homoeopathy, and a jury would 
attribute his protest — the full force of which could only be 
appreciated by those v/ho had seen his pale face and heard 
his earnest words — to his dislike of the system ; and he was 
certain to escape. Eugene could not even say that, as ^ jury- 
man, he should be willing to convict a man on the evidence 
that could be adduced. Once more the tempest was permit- 
ted to subside. Eugene and Dick bowed to the doctor, and 
the doctor bowed to Eugene and Dick, when they met. 
Julia, Mrs. Hungerford the elder, and Mrs. Hungerford 
the younger, were coldly polite to him ; and each party was 
scrupulously careful not to injure the other in word or deed. 


DICK BIRCH AND LADY. 429 

They were at war, but a perpetual. truce had been tacitl} 
agreed upon. 

If Julia Hungerford had ever hesitated between her two 
devoted lovers, there was no longer any room for a doubt. 
The doctor had fallen, and had disappeared like a lost star 
from the firmament of her imagination, but Dick Birch had 
become a whole constellation of himself. The comparison 
in her mind between Dick and the doctor, always favorable 
tc the former, had now become a contrast. 

One morning, a month after Dr. Lynch had made his last 
visit to Pine Hill, as Dick was coming up from the river, he 
met Julia near the brook. He was about to cross the bridge, 
which he had planned and built with the proprietor’s con- 
sent, when he discovered her. He came to a halt, and 
awaited her approach. The scene on the former occasion, 
when he had first spoken to her of his love, came vividly to 
his mind. Close by was the bench on which they had sat. 

“ Met again,” said he. 

She stopped as she was about to step upon the bridge. 
She smiled and she blushed. The figure of speech used by 
Dick when they met before came to her mind. They were 
on opposite sides of the stream. 

“ Why do you stop?” asked Dick. 

“ You startled me ; I did not see you till you spoke.” 

“ Stop, if you please, Julia. I have built my bridge. Have 
you built yours? ” 

“ I am not a bridge builder.” 

“ We are still on opposite sides of the stream, Julia. If 
you come over you are mine,” laughed Dick. 

“ Of course you do not expect me to go over in the facrj 
of a threat,” she replied, turning abruptly on her heel, and 
walking away. 

Dick was vexed. 

“Julia!” 

“ W^ll. Dick?” 


43<> the way of the world. 

“ I am going to build a monument on the spot where you 
stood/’ he added, joining her. 

“ I protest ; it would obstruct the path.” 

“ Then I will remove the bridge and the path. I wish the 
biidge were burned up.” 

“ Burn it then.” 

“ It has become hateful to me.” 

“ Keep away from it then.” 

“ Don’t you think I had better leave Pine Hill ? ” 

“ Certainly, if you wish.” 

“ Are you quite willing to see me no more? ” 

“ I should endeavor to be resigned, if such were youi 
majesty’s pleasure.” 

Why didn’t she ask him why he would build a monu- 
ment, burn the bridge, leave Pine Hill, see her no more? It 
was very provoking of her not to help him even with a little 
encouragement. 

“ I thought you loved me, Julia — just a little,” said he. 

“ What made you think so? ” 

You told me so.” 

“ But I have had time to repent of my folly.” 

“ Are you in earnest, Julia? ” 

“ Are you, Dick? ” 

“ Your question is not an answer to mine.” 

“ Then I will not ask or answer any questions.” 

“ Have I offended you, Julia? If I have, forgive me.” 

“ I forgive you, Dick. Do you wish me to go down on 
my knees to you ? ” 

“ No, no ; I will go down on my knees to you.” 

“ Don’t do it ; the ground is damp ; you would get the 
rheumatism in your joints, and injure your clothing.” 

“Julia, I love you ! ” exclaimed Dick, desperately. 

“ Bui you wish me to go to you, instead of your coming 
to me. You wish me to unsex myself,” pouted she. 

“ Far from it.” 


DICK BIRCH ANii LADY. 431 

“ Must I cross the bridge alone? You did not even come 
after me.*^ 

I have come now.” 

“ Tardily.” 

“ May I lead you over the bridge?” 

“ You may.” 

“ In the sense I meant before ? ” 

“ Not yet.” 

“ I love you, Julia. Will you not thus make me happy?” 
They had returned to the verge of the bridge, where she 
stopped. 

“ Not yet. This is the site of your monument?” 

“Yes.” 

“For what?” 

“To mark the sad spot where you refused me ; where you 
virtually said you did not love me.” 

“Very pretty ; but a very weak idea for a sensible man. 
Why burn the bridge ? ” 

“ Because it has been associated with all my thoughts of 
you.” 

“ A good reason for burning it ! ” 

“ They would be sad thoughts, if you and I are to remain 
on opposite sides of the stream.” 

“We are on the same side now ; brought together by youf 
coming over, and not by my going over.” 

“ Will you go over with me, Julia?” 

“ If you wish.” 

“ In the sense I meant?” 

“ In any sense you please. 

“ Come ! ” 

They crossed the bridge. 

“ Do you love me, Julia?” 

She gave him her hand. 

“ You do love me ! ” 

“ I do, Dick ! ” 


432 THE WAY OF THK WORLD. 

Why one so strong-minded as Julia should weep at such 
a time is a mystery. The heart is mightier than the brain. 

Julia and Dick were late at breakfast that morning. 

Both of them looked as though something had happened. 
That forenoon Julia told her mother and Mary of her en- 
gagement. That afternoon Mary told her husband of it. 
Dr. Lynch heard of it within a week. He used some exple- 
tives in the solitude of his office ; but he was prudent in the 
presence of the people. The marriage was to take place in 
November. 

“Julia,” said Eugene Hungerford, as he met her alone one 
morning after the day had been fixed, “ this package belongs 
to you.” 

“ What is it?” she asked, with some astonishment. 

“ Certificates of stock, treasury notes, and a check, to the 
amount of one hundred thousand dollars.” 

“ Then it is not mine.” 

“ It is.” 

“ Please to explain.” 

“You are to be married in November.” 

“ All the world knows it by this time.” 

“ What are your plans ? Dick is a poor man. I have 
never been able to make him accept more than his salary of 
five thousand a year.” 

“We shall not suffer on that. I have twenty thousand 
dollars of my own.” 

“ Dick has to support his invalid father and his family.” 

‘ • So much the better.” 

“ Have you any plans?” 

“We have.” 

“ What are they?” 

“Dick thinks of building a small house, in which his in- 
come will keep us very comfortably and pleasantly.” 

“ That is all very pretty ; but I shall build a house like 
mine for you in the spring.” 


DICK BIRCH AND LADY. 


433 


“ That would be very pretty ! Dick could not support that 
style of living.” 

“Julia, I have never intended that you should suffer by 
my marriage. The half million mentioned in uncle John’s 
will shall be yours. It will not be convenient for you to 
wait till I am thirty years of age. Here is the first instal- 
ment of your portion.” 

I object, Eugene.” 

“Why?” 

“ I am too proud to receive a gift.” 

“ Why didn’t you decline uncle John’s legacy of twenty 
thousand, then?” laughed he. 

“That was different.” 

“Just the same. The half million comes from uncle 
John.^’ 

“ Dick will not consent.” 

“ It is none of his business. I give you the half million 
to-day. Here is one fifth of it. I will give you my note 
for the balance.” 

Eugene was the most powerful personage at Pine Hill, 
and Julia could not prevail against him. Dick attempted to 
protest when he was told of what had been done. He 
talked about feeling mean ; about being the “ victim ” of 
charity ; but Eugene proved to be the better logician. 

“Dick,” said he, “Julia has been accustomed to our style 
of living at Pine Hill, and it would be cruel to deprive her 
of the luxuries and comforts which she knows so well how 
to use.” 

“ Then it is cruel in me to ask her to be my wife.” 

“ Marriage is absolutely necessary to both of you, and has 
been from the beginning, in my opinion. Dick, you are 
trying to be a tyrant towards Julia or me.” 

“No!” 

“ You wish to take her away from the luxuries of wealth, 
and you wish to deprive me of the pleasure of doing for her 
what I may do for others.” 

37 


434 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ But my salary is sufficient to support her in what you 
an 1 1 both, a few years ago, would have deemed the most 
princely luxury.” 

“ Doubtless you think it would be very pleasant for me to 
live at Pine Hill, while my sister is cramped up in a small 
house, and reduced from plenty to comparative poverty. I 
say, Dick, it is cruel for you to insist upon such a state of 
things. You may humor your pride, and think it is mag- 
nanimous in you to choose poverty instead of wealth ; but 1 
am to be the sufferer — not you. I am to bear the pains and 
penalties of your reduced circumstances — not yourself.” 

“ I do not wish to render you uncomfortable, certainly,” 
replied Dick, musing. 

“ Then you will not object to Julia’s half million.” 

“ There is something humiliating in the situation.” 

“ Nothing of the kind. What your pride does not permit 
me to do for you, I shall do for my sister.” 

“ The same thing under another name.” 

“ No ; the real question is. Shall I let my sister suffer for 
your pride and obstinacy ? If I were to sacrifice anything 
at all for your sake, or even for hers, it would be different. 
I am giving her what I do not need, and cannot use. There 
is no merit whatever in my deed.” 

Dick yielded only when he could no longer contest the 
point ; but his pride was not entirely overcome. 

“ Now, Dick, you will be a rich man in spite of yourself,” 
said Julia, when they met alone after the conversation ; “ and 
I shall have the happiness of making you so.” 

“ There is a man at the Port who will say that this wealth 
is what I have been aiming at.” 

“ But there is not a person at Pine Hill who would be- 
lieve him.” 

“Julia, I wish you had not a dollar in the world, and 
could not g=Jt ono,” replied Dick, still galled by his situ 
ation. 


DICK BIRCH AND LADY. 435 

“You would love me none the less; but I am glad to 
be worth taking.” 

“ You do not need wealth to make you a prize. I am not 
sure that you wouldn’t be better without it than with it.” 

“ I will try to be good with it, Dick.” 

“Julia, I used to love you before I saw you. I wish we 
Iiad met before the shower of gold fell upon you.” 

“ I have no need to complain ; and sad and unfortunate as 
the circumstances are, we must endeavor to be resigned,” 
said Julia. “ It is hard to have wealth thrust upon you, to 
be rich in spite of yourself ; but I hope we shall be reconciled 
to our unhappy lot.” 

We must do Dick Birch the justice to say that he endeav- 
ored to submit with good grace to the grievous misfortune 
of half a million. He patiently bore the cross, and richly 
deserved the crown. But it should be added that, in his 
doubts and fears, his trials and vexations, he was supported 
and cheered by the fairest and truest of women ; that Julia 
did all she could to comfort him in his affliction, and render 
tolerable the load of wealth he was compelled to bear on 
his shoulders. When he desponded, she pointed him to the 
redeeming joys of his condition. Without her in this trying 
emergency, he would have been forlorn indeed. 

There is nothing like the comfort and solace which a true 
woman is to a man burdened with trials, especially when 
there is any money to spend. In such a strait as that to 
which poor Dick was reduced, she is a blessing which can- 
not be over-estimated. She is more than a comforter : she 
bears his burden, and labors assiduously to remove far fiom 
him the cause of his sorrows. 

Under such gentle ministrations as those of his betrothed, 
it is not strange that Dick Birch soon recovered his wonted 
cheerfulness, and looked with tolerable calmness upon the 
heavy burden he was doomed to carry. He had faith in 
woman ; and he knew, if she could not relieve him of the 
load, she could help him spend it. When November came, 


436 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

and the brida.. day dawned upon him, he had attained a vei ^ 
happy frame of mind ; so that he hardly needed the conso 
lations of any one besides Julia to sustain him in the great 
trial. 

They were married by the Rev. John Porter. The Pine 
Hill mansion was thronged again, though the wedding was 
a comparatively quiet affair, measured by that of Eugene 
and Mary. 

Dr. Lynch was not present. He was not invited. Peo- 
ple did not know whether he was asked or not ; but they 
thought it quite natural that he should not care to witness 
the crowning triumph of his rival. The doctor said nothing ; 
he kept his own counsel, and bided his own time. 

“ There will be a fall at Pine Hill one of these days,” he 
muttered more than once, when he thought of Julia as the 
wife of another, and of his own banishment. “ There will 
be weeping and wailing over broken ties and unlawful heirs. 
I shall be satisfied then.” 

Dick had long cherished a desire to visit Europe. When 
the marriage day was first arranged, he had even thought of 
a bridal tour across the ocean ; hut his own means were in- 
sufficient. Julia was pleased wi.h the idea of a second visit ; 
but Dick abandoned the project after a careful examination 
of his finances. When the half million dropped into his 
lap, Julia opened the subject again, and Dick gladly assented 
to the project. The whole family went to the city to see the 
happy couple start. 

Pine Hill was dull without Julia ; but there was nothing 
but happiness there. Mary Hungerford was all that her 
husband* had hoped or desired, and he was never tired of 
being at her side. There was enough to occupy their time ; 
and if the house was not as lively as it had been when Julia 
was at home, there were no heavy and weary moments 
there. 

The Library building was completed, and the institution 
ivsis in full operation, much to the satisfaction of Popp^eton , 


DICK BIRCH AND LADY. 


437 


though the people at the Mills complained at its location, 
and said it ought to have been placed half way between the 
two villages. 

In June, when Mr. and Mrs. Birch returned, their house 
— a duplicate of the Pine Hill mansion, and placed within 
ten rods of it — was half done ; but the happy couple were 
cordially welcomed to their old home. In the autumn they 
took possession of their new residence ; and we will leave 
them for a time, as happy and contented as love and plenty 
could make them. 

37 * 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 




CHAPTER XXXIV. 


THIRTY YEARS OLD. 



OUR years have passed away. Pine Hill is still glorious 


in its beauty ; more glorious in its men and women, for 
the true life has been rich in true progress. The twin man- 
sions are full of joys. Life has blossomed and borne fruit. 

Eugene Hungerford’s birthday is at hand, when he will be 
thirty years old. The time for the disposal of John Hun- 
gerford’s three millions has been nearly reached. Dick 
Birch, and Julia, and Mary have insisted that the occasion 
shall be celebrated. The lord of the manor is not partial to 
celebrations, but he has consented to a gathering of his most 
intimate friends on the occasion, and a letter from the three 
eminent trustees in Baltimore has just been received, an- 
nouncing that they will be present in a body, attended and 
supported by the distinguished lawyer who invented all the 
repetitions in John Hungerford’s will. 

Eugene does not look so old as he did when he returned 
from Europe, though five years have been added to the cal- 
endar. He has been happy since that time ; he has liad 
enough to occupy his mind. Manly exercise and abundant 
fresh air have kept him healthy, and he certainly looks 
better than ever before. Mary has hardly grown older, 
though there is a certain maturity in her looks which does not 
lessen her beauty, or render her less interesting than before. 
She is a shade stouter, but she is as elegant in form, and as 
graceful in movement, as before. She is the mother of two 
children. 


THIRTY YEARS OLD. 


439 


Mis. Hungerford senior is still a hale, healthy old lady, 
^^PPy seeing her children and grandchildren happy. 
She walks over to the “ other house, ’’ as she terms it, every 
day, unless the weather is very unfavorable, and even oftenei 
if Master Eugene Hungerford Birch, now happily just enter- 
ing his third year, has the “ snuffles,” or any indications of 
croup, measles, whooping cough, scarlatina, or chicken pox. 

Dick Birch, perhaps somewhat modified by matrimony, is 
a happy man. He is hardly appreciated by the people ; if 
he had been, he would have gone to Congress before this 
time ;.but Mrs. Birch declares that he is the best man in the 
world, though he is just a little too fond of having his own 
way — a grievous fault, said to be almost universal among 
husbands. By no means let it be supposed that Mr. and 
Mrs. Birch quarrelled, though without any positive informa- 
tion on the subject, we will venture to say that Julia occa- 
sionally went into a huff, and that Dick had to pacify her. 
As each had a will and a way, it is more than possible that 
concessions were necessary on both sides ; but as both were 
reasonable, and there was true love, concession was easy, 
and even pleasant. There was only a little spice to give 
variety to life, and no happier couple lived in the whole 
world. They still continued to be on the same side of the 
bridge. 

Master Eugene Hungerford Birch is a remarkable child; it 
is absolutely necessary that this fact should be stated, other- 
wise it would not be known. Besides being able to sleep 
and to eat bread and milk, which he did very naturally, if not 
gracefully, he could perform as many tricks as the clown in 
a circus, and he was duly exhibited to the crowds of admiring 
guests who came to Pine Hill. He could fall off the sofa, 
tumble down stairs, and roll out of bed with remarkable 
facility ; and these feats were usually succeeded by healthy 
exercise of the lungs, causing them to grow strong and 
vigorous. 

Master Johnnie H ungerford was even a more remarkable 


440 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

young gentleman than his cousin. He was foui jrears old; 
and though he had, as yet, made no speeches in town meet- 
ing, or in the hall of the Poppleton Library, he. could talk 
faster, and say more in a given time, than any other child of 
his age in the county. His extraordinary talent in this 
direction already pointed him out as a future member of 
C.'ongress, to which honorable position no one doubted that 
he would ultimately arrive. 

Johnnie was not surpassed in anything by his remarkable 
cousin. He could fall off the sofa, tumble down stairs, and 
roll out of bed with no less facility than Master Eugene H. 
Birch ; and, in the preceding summer, he had contrived to 
outdo him by tumbling into the duck pond, to the great 
astonishment of the ducks, and the mortal terror of his 
mother. This was certainly a very enterprising feat, and 
Johnnie was a hero for seven days afterwards. Besides his 
strictly gymnastic ability, John had other talents and accom- 
plishments of the highest order. He could break crockery 
and glass ware beautifully ; he could purloin his mother’s 
scissors and hack a cambric handkerchief to pieces in the 
most artistic manner ; he could root out a rare geranium in 
the conservatory in the twinkling of the eye. 

Parkinson was quite sure that Johnnie would become 
an author, he was so fond of books and of writing. He 
could use up a twenty-dollar copy of Spenser in four 
minutes by the watch, accomplishing this remarkable feat 
by climbing up to the desk, and with pen and ink scratching 
and scrawling strange diagrams on the dainty pages. Johnnie 
was quite enterprising, too, in the department of mechanics. 
The barometer, which hung in the hall, was a great mystery 
to him ; and one day he climbed up to it on a chair, to make 
an examination. In the course of his investigations, he man- 
aged, by the exercise of great skill, to destroy the instrument 
in a 1 ery brief space of time. But Johnnie’s greatest achieve* 
men In this line was picking his Hther’s gold watch to pieces, 


THIRTY YEARS OLD. 


441 


in order to find the “ tick ” in it, thus exhibiting a thirst for 
hidden knowledge worthy of encouragement. 

Dick Birch and lady once called Johnnie the “ three mil- 
lion boy,” because this sum depended upon him ; but neither 
Eugene nor Mary liked the idea. The “ little darling,” with 
\11 his rare accomplishments, was the choicest gift of God to 
t’lem, worth more than three millions, and was loved and 
prized for his own sake alone. Though his “ nose was out of 
joint ” now, and had been for a year, by the appearance of 
Miss Mary Hungerford, the young gentleman hardly suffered 
by the addition of a sister to share his caresses. Miss Hun- 
gerford, being but a year old, made no long speeches, though 
wonderful things were expected of her. She was, however, 
a remarkably forward child, and could tumble out of a chair, 
if they would only let her, almost as well as Johnnie him- 
self. She had an astonishing talent for eating and sleeping, 
though, not being an epicure, she did not insist upon variety 
in her diet. 

If Johnnie sneezed, all Pine Hill was thrown into commo- 
tion, and his father had seriously entertained the idea of 
having a physician resident at the mansion, that no delay 
might be experienced when the little fellow barked hoarsely, 
or exhibited any symptom of a dangerous disease. But, 
though the parents were inclined to be perniciously indul- 
gent, they were sensible people in the main. Pastry, cakes, 
and confects were wholly banished from the tables, except 
on extraordinary occasions ; beef and mutton, bread and 
milk, were the staple articles of diet, for parents as well as 
children, for the latter would not cry for what they did not 
see. Johnnie lived mainly on fresh air, and on the approach 
of his father’s thirtieth birthday, he was perfectly healthy, 
and as fat and rosy as the child of a poor laborer. 

Poppleton had been progressing during these four years. 
Eugene had been busy all the time. The library was in 
excellent working condition ; the lyceum and the recreations 
were successful. The chapel had been diffusing the light of 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


442 

the gospel; Miss Thompson still labored as a miBsionar}' 
among the poor, and John Porter preached practical 
Christianity. 

Dr. Thomas Lynch still drove a fast horse through the 
streets, and was hardly less popular than when he first came 
into the town ; hardly less, for he had actually begun to lose 
ground. He had purchased popularity, and he was not 
always willing to pay the price. It cost too much to keep 
up the farce of pandering to old women’s whims. As he 
became more successful, he bowed less low to the magnates 
of Poppleton, took less pains to conciliate men and women 
who could do nothing but sound his praise. But the doctor 
was still great, though it was a fact that he had begun to 
decline. 

Eugene Hungerford’s birthday came. A gentleman arrived 
at Poppleton by the afternoon train. He went directly to 
the office of Dr. Lynch, who received him with a patronizing 
smile, and conducted him to the room in the rear. 

“ You have come at exactly the right time,” said the 
doctor, rubbing his hands, as if in anticipation of some 
delightful event. 

“ I came when you told me,” replied the stranger, some- 
what roughly, for the doctor’s greeting was rather too 
patronizing to be entirely satisfactory. 

“ I have been afraid, twenty times to-day, that I should not 
see you.” 

“ But you knew I arrived from Italy a month ago.” 

“ I did ; but I feared you might take a drop too much, or 
that some accident might prevent you.” 

“ You need not insult me.” 

“ I had no intention of insulting you.” 

“ What do you mean by a drop too much, then? ” 

“ Nothing, nothing ! You know you used to imbibe a 
little too freely.” 

“ But I told you in one of my letters that I had drank 
nothing stronger than red wine for five years.” 


THIRTY YEARS OLD. 


443 


‘ So .niich the better.” 

“When will this business be finished?” demanded tlie 
stranger, with no little impatience. 

“ This evening.” 

“ I am disgusted with it.” 

“ You have no right to be disgusted with it. I have paid 
)rOu three thousand dollars a year for your services, which 
has supported you like a prince in Italy.” 

“ I have no fault to find with the pay ; that is liberal, but 
it would not buy me into such a mean transaction a second 
time.” 

“ You must not flinch now, at the last moment.” 

“ I shall not flinch ; I have sold myself to the devil, and I 
am willing to pay the price.” 

“ But you must do your part handsomely. You must ride 
the high horse. You must refuse all compromise. You 
must claim your own without the shadow of relenting.” 

“ This was not nominated in the bond. I will do my 
part with as little offence as possible.” 

“ You must be firm and resolute,” persisted the doctor. , 

“ I will be firm and resolute enough to accomplish the 
purpose — no more.” 

“ I have been waiting five years for this night. I have 
longed for this hour as they that suffer wait for the morn- 
ing My time has come. I have been insulted, outraged in 
my feelings, cast out like an unclean beast ” 

“ As you are ! ” interposed the stranger. 

“What!” 

“ I know you, if they don’t.” 

“ This is hardly proper in you.” 

“ I will pay the bond, but I have the privilege of despis- 
ing you.” 

“ Come, come ; you are riding the high horse with me, 
instead of my enemies.” 

“ They are your enemies, not mine.” 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


m 

“1 have paid you to help me crush them,” said the 
doctor, bitterly. 

“ And I will help you crush them, because I have been 
paid for doing so ; but I am none the less a villain, tliough 
T am a respectable man compared with you.” 

“ Have a care, sir.” 

“You nee.l not threaten me. I doubt if I can help kick 
ing you after I have done what you require of me.” 

“ Be reasonable, my dear fellow. We cannot afford to 
quarrel.” 

“ I can ; you cannot.” 

“ Neither of us can.” 

“ I have had all the money you were to pay me.” 

“ I will give you a thousand dollars more if you follow my 
directions implicitly.” 

“What are they?” asked the stranger, apparently tempt- 
ed by the offer. 

“You must be firm and resolute, and insist upon bearing 
your own away with you. My revenge would not be com- 
plete without that.” 

“ I spurn the offer ! ” replied the stranger, proudly. 
“ After I have inflicted the wound, I shall do the best I 
can to heal it. I shall be seen no more in this part of the 
country.” 

“ Your sensibilities are very delicate,” sneered the doctor. 

“ You will win your fortune ; be satisfied with that. I am 
not so vile as you are.” 

The doctor handed the stranger a cigar, and then tried to 
persuade him to do his work after the heroic style ; and 
while he is thus engaged, we will leave him, and return to 
Pine Hill. 

The eminent trustees and the distinguished lawyer from 
Baltimore have arrived. Mr. John Lester has John Hun- 
gerford on his knee. He has no doubt that the little gentle- 
man is “ the legal son of the said legal father ; ” and being 
a man of ample fortune himself, he is rather glad to get rid 


THIRTY YEARS OLD. 


4AS 


of the labor and trouble of managing the three millions any 
longer. The distinguished lawyer, who has already exam- 
ined the records, is satisfied that Eugene Hungerford was duly 
and legally married to Mary K. Buckstone, widow of Eliot 
Buckstone — deceased beyond the possibility of a doubt, for 
his body was found at the bottom of the channel, fully iden- 
tified, and buried in the town. The Rev. John Porter i,'3 
present^ and ready to swear, if need be,^that he united the 
parties. Dr. Gardner, from the Mills, is ready to satisfy him 
that Master Johnnie is the child of his parents. There is no 
room even for a cavil, and no one proposes to raise the 
slightest objection. 

In the evening the three dozen or so of intimate friends 
arrive. Ross Kingman and lady are there, among the first 
to come. When Dick went to Europe, Ross was installed 
into the office of agent, and since that time has acted in that 
capacity. Hubbard became skipper of the yacht, at Dick’s 
suggestion, though the old fisherman wanted to know what 
he should do with a thousand dollars a year, which was 
more than he had been in the habit of earning in five years. 
Ross receives the same salary that Dick had, and is regarded 
as a person of considerable consequence in Poppleton. 

He is what is called a smart business man, and his em- 
ployer has entire confidence in his fidelity and his good 
judgment. He is honored and respected, though certain 
people are impressed by the fact that he has killed a man, in 
avenging his sister’s honor; to such he is terrible. 

On this occasion the library had been prepared as a ban- 
quet hall, for the dining-room is not large enough to accom- 
modate the company. Eugene is at the head of the table, 
with Mr. John Lester on his right. Dick Birch sits at the 
other end of the board. 

“ What do you think of my brother-in-law now, Mr. T.es- 
ter?” asked Hu .gerford, as the- soup plates were removed. 
“ You were not prejudiced in his favor the first time you 
came to Ifine Hill, you remember.” 

38 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


446 

“ But, Mr. Hungerford, you placed him in a false position 
before me,” protested the eminent trustee. 

“And Dr. Bilks?” 

“ Had you told me that Dr. Bilks was that scapegrace of 
a Tom Lynch, I should not have erred in judgment. With- 
out correct premises, Mr. Hungerford, of course it is impos- 
sible to arrive at a correct conclusion.” 

Of course Mr. Lester could have made no mistake ; it 
was not possible for an eminent merchant like himself to 
blunder on a question of human nature. 

“ I did not know myself that Tom Lynch was amongst us.” 

“ You were deceived, and unwittingly deceived me. I 
have the highest regard for your friend Mr. Birch.” 

The supper w'as finished, and Mr. Lester intimated that 
he should be happy to place Eugene Hungerford in posses- 
sion of the deeds, bonds, notes, and other securities, which 
constituted the three millions. The party adjourned to the 
drawing-room. 

“ I believe there is only one person not present who has 
had any contingent interest in the property,” said Mr. Lester, 
who, being an eminent man, was of course disposed to be 
formal and precise in the discharge of a duty so important 
as that which now devolved upon him. 

“ Dr. Lynch,” added the lawyer. “ His contingent inter- 
est ceases to-day.” 

“ It is quite proper that he should be present, being an 
interested party, and I have taken the liberty to invite him 
to come here at nine o’clock,” continued Mr. Lester. “ You 
will pardon me for inviting this unwelcome guest, Mr. Hun- 
gerford, but I deemed it best that he should be here,” he 
added, in a low tone, to Eugene, who stood by his side. 

“ 1 am entirely satisfied.” 

“I do not think he will come,” said Mr. Lester. “His 
contingent interest no longer exists, and I doubt if he will 
care to see all the property slip into your hands.” 

The eminent trustee chuckled a little. He was so v;ek 


THIRTY YEARS OLD. 


447 


satisfied that the doctor would not come, that he had not 
even deemed it worth his while to say before that he had 
invited him. 

“ Dr. Lynch is not present,” continued the eminent trus- 
tee, “ and we will proceed without him.” 

“ Dr. Lynch,” said Parkinson, throwing open the door at 
this moment. 

“ Ah ! ” ejaculated Mr. Lester, faintly. 

“ I am here at the request of Mr. Lester,” said Dr. Lynch, 
as Eugene stepped forward to receive the guest. 

Eugene made no reply ; he was courteous, but he said no 
more than was necessary to greet the guest. He gave him 
a seat. 

“ By the terms of John Hungerford’s will,” Mr. Lester 
began again, “ a document drawn up with great care by 
my learned legal friend, whom you all have the pleasure of 
meeting on this interesting occasion, it was provided that 
the income of the three millions of dollars, the entire estate 
of the testator, should be paid over to Eugene Hungerford, 
his nephew, as fast as it accrued. This clause, I believe, 
has been faithfully and legally carried out, and the trustees 
have the receipts for all moneys paid over to Mr. Hun- 
gerford.” 

Mr. Lester paused and wiped his forehead with his hand- 
kerchief. It was important business, and it must look 
important. 

“ By the terms of John Hungerford’s will, it further ap- 
pears,” he continued, “ that if, when testator’s nephew, 
Eugene, had attained the age of thirty years, he was the 
father of a son, who had been duly named for his father’s 
uncle, the whole three millions should be paid over to the 
nephew. In order to comply with the terms of the will, and 
entitle Mr. Hungerford to the absolute possession of the 
property, these questions must be answered. First : Is Eu 
gene Hungerford legally married? Second: Has he a son? 
Third : Is this son named John Hungerford? 


448 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ During the day, the trustees, with the valuable assistance 
of the distinguished legal gentleman, who drew up the origi- 
nal will, have considered these three questions, embc lying 
the conditions on which they were to constitute Mr. Hun- 
gerford the sole owner of the property, and they are happy 
to say that they find full, complete, legal evidence which 
satisfies them that the three conditions have been duly and 
properly met. 

“ The trustees find that Mr. Hungerford was duly married 
to the estimable lady known as his wife.” Mr. Lester 
was so intent upon being verbose that he quite forgot his 
early view of the marriage. “ They were united by Rev. 
John Porter. There is no room to doubt the legality of the 
marriage ; but unpleasant as it is, this matter must be men- 
tioned.” 

Mr. Lester made this apology, because, glancing at Mary, 
he saw that her face was quite red, and that she was annoyed 
by the consideration of the question. 

“ There being no doubt on this point ” 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Lester,” interposed Dr. Lynch, 
in a bland and almost supercilious tone, “ but there is some 
doubt about it.” 

All eyes were directed towards the doctor. Eugene 
looked stern and indignant ; the conduct of the unwelcome 
guest appeared like a premeditated insult to him. Dick 
Birch’s fingers were involuntarily clutched together ; he was 
in condition to lay violent hands on the doctor. Julia placed 
her finger upon his arm ; and this prevented him from exe- 
cuting tlie purpose in his mind. 

“ Dr. Lynch, do I understand you to raise an objection to 
the legality of the marriage?” asked Mr. Lester, now quite 
startled out of his propriety by the unexpected event. 

“ I do raise an objection,” replied the doctor, who was 
already revelling in the misery he intended to produce. 

“ What objection ? ” 


THIRTY YEARS OLD. 449 

“ The marriage was not legal,” he replied, triumphantly, 
as he glanced at Eugene. 

“ The ceremony was performed by the reverend gentle- 
man now present ; the marriage is duly recorded, and there 
are plenty of witnesses of the fact.” 

“ I appeal to your legal adviser, at your side, to say wheth- 
er or not these are sufficient to constitute a legal marriage ! ” 
said Dr. Lynch, apparently bent upon prolonging the joy 
of his triumph, and upon keeping the parties in suspense as 
lojig as he could. 

“ If the parties are competent to marry, they are suffi- 
cient,” said the lawyer. 

“ But the parties to this marriage were not competent.” 

“ What do you mean, you villain ! ” roared Dick Birch, 
unable any longer to repress his rage. 

“ Soft words, if you please, Mr. Birch,” replied Dr. 
Lynch, with affected politeness. “ I purpose to prove all I 
allege.” 

“What do you allege. Dr. Lynch?” interposed the 
lawyer. 

“ I allege that the lady was not competent to marry. She 
was the wife of another man.” 

“ Her husband was dead.” 

“ I beg your pardon. He was living.” 

“ Why don’t you prove it? ” demanded Dick Birch. 

“ I will.” 

Dr. Lynch went out of the room, opened the front door, 
and presently appeared with the stranger whom he had met 
at his office. 

“ Here is my proof,” said he, pointing ti the stranger. 

It was Eliot Buckstone I 

38 * 


450 


THE WAY OF THE WORLP. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE LAST OF THE THREE MILLIONS 

M ary did not faint, but all the springs of life within 
her seemed to be suddenly dried up, and she 
clung to the arm of her husband as though she feared he 
would be torn from her. The reappearance of Eliot Buck- 
stone meant only one thing to her — that, whereas she had 
been the wife of Eugene Hungerford for five happy years, 
she was now no longer his wife. Those two children were 
Eugene’s by the law of nature, but not by the law of the 
land. What was his was not theirs by the cold formula of 
the world’s way. 

Those who had known Eliot Buckstone were startled by 
his appearance among them. Had the dead risen? Had 
the grave given up its headless trunk, which, reunited with 
the temple of the mind, now stood before them to confuse 
and confound the living, and wrench asunder the loving 
hearts interlocked with each other? 

Dr. Lynch stood with folded arms gazing upon his vic- 
tims. His hour of triumph, so long waited for, had come. 
Banished for years from that mansion, he came now, like ati 
avenging demon, with woe and desolation in his train. lie 
was satisfied. 

“ Mr. Lester, you will perceive that I have established the 
truth of my statement,” said he, when the party had in some 
measure recovered from their astonishment. 

“Who is this man?” demanded the principal trustee, 
unable fully to comprehend the situation, though he could 


THE LAST OF THE THREE MILLIONS. 


45 « 

not help seeing that a tremendous change had suddenly come 
over the face of affairs in the Hungerford family. 

“ This gentleman is Mr, Eliot Buckstone ; he is the legal 
husband of the lady who has hitherto been known as Mrs. 
Eugene Hungerford.” 

“ Can this be true?” 

“ She is my wife ” said Eliot Buckstone, hardly raising 
his eyes from the floor, upon which he had gazed intent!) 
from the moment he entered the room. 

Ross Kingman stepped forward and looked at him. The 
murde’-ed man was certainly alive. The grave in the old 
cemetery contained not the remains of Eliot Buckstone. 
The stain of blood no longer rested upon the brother of 
Mary. No one doubted the facts, and busy minds were 
eagerly seeking the solution of the problem. All looked at 
Dr. Lynch. There was a new chapter in the dark history 
of the murder yet to be read, and the popular physician was 
the only man to whom they could look for a translation. 

“ Mary, I have done all my evil work now,” said Buck- 
stone, looking towards Eugene’s wife. “ Do not shrink 
from me. I will leave you now, and you shall never see my 
face again.” 

“Was this person legally married to Mrs. Hungerford?” 
asked Mr. Lester. 

“ She has her marriage certificate and an attested copy of 
the records,” interposed the doctor. 

“ And this was the reason why you were so anxious to 
establish the legality of her marriage,” said Eugene, bitterly. 

Dr. Lynch bowed coldly, while a devil’s smile gleamed 
upon his face. 

“ Mr. Lester, are you satisfied ? ” demanded he. 

“ No one seems to dispute your astounding declarations,” 
answered the trustee. 

“ No one can dispute them, sir.” 

“ \'’illain, scoundrel, knave, as I took this man to be, I 


452 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


never deemed him capable of such refined rascality fts this,” 
exclaimed Dick Birch. 

“ Mr. Birch, your opinions are entirely gratuitous,” sneered 
the doctor. “ You are a legal gentleman ; if you have any- 
thing to say in defence of your friends’ case, why don’t you 
say ii? — not waste your breath in idle vituperation.” 

“ I am confounded by the measure of villany to which 
y’ou have attained.” 

‘‘ These are not arguments, Mr. Birch,” said the doctor, 
st’ffly. 

“ The best argument for you would be a hemp rope,” 
added Dick, stepping out into the middle of the floor. “ I 
wish to be a gentleman and a Christian, but I never was so 
tempted to take a man by the throat as I am at this 
moment.” 

“ Mr. Birch, I do not aspire to be a common blackguard. 
I cannot hope to reach your heights in that capacity.” 

Dr. Lynch was very angry, but he tried to look dignified 
and contemptuous. 

“ Mr. Lester,” he continued, “ I am willing to answer any 
questions affecting the matter at issue ; but no doubts seem 
to be raised in regard to the truth of my assertions. I there- 
fore protest against further proceedings in this settlement, 
and claim the half million which belongs to me by the tergis 
of my step-father’s will.” 

“ The trustees are not prepared to admit your claim with- 
out further investigation.” 

“ Certainly ; any time you may desire will be cheerfully 
granted on my part.” 

“ Perhaps Mr. Hungerford, who is the only party concerned 
in opposition to your interests, may be willing to admit youi 
claim.” 

“ I am not willing to admit it,” said Eugene, whose breast 
was racked with terrible emotions. 

“ It would-be well to settle the matter as quietly as possi- 
ble,” suggested the distir guished lawyer from Baltimore. 


THE LAST OF THE THREE MILLIONS. 45;^ 

“ Perhaps Dr. Lynch requires nothing more than the pay- 
ment of his clafm, and will be willing to permit a quiet and 
amicable adjustment.” 

“ Dr. Lynch is not disposed to put any one to unnecessary 
inconvenience; though he cannot forget that he has been 
banished from this house like a knave, and treated as one 
unworthy to associate with the magnates of Pine Hill,” 
added the doctor. 

“ And you are unworthy ; if they were all beggars they 
would spurn and despise you,” said Dick Birch. 

“You hear, gentlemen, what inducements I have to pur- 
sue a conciliatory policy,” continued the doctor. 

“ Pursue any policy you please,” added Dick. “ Gentle- 
men, this is all a farce.” 

“ Do you think so, Mr. Birch?” demanded Dr. Lynch. 

“ I do ; I know it.” 

“ Won’t 3^ou oblige the company present by proving that it 
is a farce,” sneered the doctor. 

“ I purpose to do so.” 

“Will you deny that this gentleman is Mr. Eliot Buck- 
stone?” 

“ I will not ; that gentleman undoubtedly is Mr. Eliot 
Buckstone, in spite of some prejudices we might have to the 
contrary.” 

“ He was married to the lady who has for several years 
been known as Mrs. Eugene Hungerford. Can you deny 
this? ” 

“ No,” replied Dick. “ Do not be alarmed, Mrs. Hun 
gerford.” 

“ And the marriage was a legal one.” 

“ No ; it was not ! ” shouted Dick. 

“ Mr. Birch, you are a rash man to make such a statement.” 

“ If my rashness does not lead me to put my hand upon 
your throat, you need not complain of it.” 

“Your threats are idle. Can you prove what you say?'' 
continued Dr. Lynch, with a sneer. 


454 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“Ica,!.’* 

“ Well, why don’t you ? ” 

All eyes were now directed towards Dick Birch. It was 
an exciting moment. Even Mary, who would ha\ e given 
all the world six years before to prove her first marriage, 
was painfully anxious to have it declared illegal. 

“ Do not mock us, Dick,” said Eugene, fearfully agitated. 

I speak only the truth, Hungerford. The God of eternal 
justice does not permit this wretch to desolate your happy 
home. Be calm, Mary,” added Dick, as he moved towards 
the door. 

“The proof, Mr. Birch — the proof!” said Dr. Lynch, 
with triumphant assm*ance. 

Dick left the room. 

“ That is the last of him,” sneered the doctor. “ Abuse 
proves nothing. I have been foully wronged and ill-treated 
by that man. Yet I am expected to be patient, and to be 
gentle and conciliatory. Mr. Hungerford, it has been your 
misfortune to have a bad adviser.” 

“ Silence, sir ! ” said Eugene, sternly. 

“ As you please. I am not disposed to annoy you in any 
manner. Between you and me this matter can be speedily 
adjusted, but you must send Mr. Birch away.” 

“ Mr. Birch is my friend ; I will hear no abuse of him 
from you.” 

“ This is a plain case, as you perceive. Here is Mr. 
Buckstone himself ; he is the best kind of evidence.” 

“And here is Mrs. Buckstone herself!” shouted Dick 
Birch, leading Miss Thompson into the room. 

The baby had been troublesome, and she had volunteered 
tc sit by the crib when the party left the supper table. 

“Who?” demanded Dr. Lynch, with a broad laugh. 

“ Mrs. Eliot Buckstone,” replied Dick. 

“ I think not,” sneered the wretch 

“ Ellen ! ” exclaimed Buckstone, starting back as Miss 
Thompson came forward. 


THE LAST OF THE THREE MILL30NS. 455 

“ O, Eliot I ” cried she, bursting into tears, and sobbing as 
though her heart would break. 

“ What farce is this?” asked the doctor, beginning to look 
a little pale. 

“ This is a part of the old farce,” added Dick. 

“Who is this woman?” gasped Dr. Lynch. 

“ She is my wife,” replied Buckstone, hanging his head 
with shame. 

“Have you deceived me? Have you made a fool of 
me ? ” 

“ You were that in the beginning. Knaves and fools are 
twin brothers,” said Dick. 

“ If I did deceive you, I was deceived myself,” replied 
Buckstone. 

“Is this woman your wife?” hissed the doctor, now so 
agitated by stirring emotions that he could hardly speak. 

“ She is.” 

“ When were you married to her?” 

“ Seven years ago.” 

“Was it a legal marriage?” 

“ It was.” 

“ I have the certificate,” added the weeping lady, who 
now began to comprehend the situation. 

“ Then you have deceived, duped, cheated me ! ” cried the 
doctor. 

“ Unintentionally I have ; but, from the deepest depths of 
my heart, I thank God that your villanous conspiracy has 
come to grief!” added Buckstone, fervently. 

“ Good ! There is some hope of you, Buckstone,” ex 
claimed Dick. 

Eugene threw his arms around the neck of Mary, and 
pressed her to his bosom. She smiled in her tears ; she did 
not think that she had been no wife when she married him 
who stood by her side, and folded her to his heart. The 
world was not there ; it could not frown. 

Dr. Lynch flew up and down the room, smarting under 


456 


THE WAY OF THE WOKED. 


the sting of this final defeat, the object of contempt and rep- 
robation to all who beheld him. The last half million had 
eluded his grasp ; his dream of wealth was exploded ; his 
vision of vengeance was dissipated in the most crushing 
blow he had ever received. 

“ Keep cool, doctor,” said Dick, in taunting tones. 

The discomfited wretch paused before him, boiling over 
with passion. Dick laughed in his face, and he dared not 
resent it. 

“We begin to understand the past as well as the present,” 
said Eugene. 

“ The doctor's confession was the biggest lie of all,” 
added Dick. “ I think we had better look up the facts at 
once, wEile the doctor is present.” 

But the convicted villain at these words rushed from the 
house. 

“ No matter,” laughed Dick. “ There is a hole in this 
millstone. Mr. Buckstone, you acknowledge that this lady 
is your wife,” he added, nodding to Miss Thompson. 

“ I do ; and if she can forgive me, I will endeavor to 
atone for the wrong I have done.” 

“ Freely, Eliot,” said she, giving him her hand. “ If you 
are truly sorry, and mean to shun your evil ways, I cannot 
reproach you.” 

“ I have hated this business from the beginning ; but after 
I had been paid for it, I could not honorably refuse to com- 
plete the contract.” 

“When were you married to Miss Thompson?” aslisd 
Dick. 

“ Seven years ago, at Eastport.” 

Buckstone told his story. On a visit to Eastport, while he 
was a student of art, he had fallen in love with Ellen 
Thompson, whose father was a sea captain. They were 
married, and went to New York. They lived happily for 
a year, when Buckstone's dissolute habits destroyed their 
peace. He was a periodical drunkard. For three, six, oi 


THE LAST OF THE THREE MU^LIONS. 


457 


even twelve months he entirely abstained from the cup, and 
then his period of dissipation lasted from four to twelve 
weeks. In one of these seasons he abandoned his wife, and 
she was left destitute, as Mary had been. She wrote to her 
father, and the indignant parent hastened to her assistance. 
He conveyed her to his home. She was an only child, and 
her mother was dead. Captain Thompson resolved that she 
should never return to her husband ; but the stricken wife, 
refused to be comforted. Her hopes had been wrecked. 

Captain Thompson was ai^pointed to the command of a 
brig for a voyage to the West Indies and back. He could 
not leave Ellen alone in her misery, and he thought the sea 
voyage would benefit her health, and help her to forget her 
grief. She went with him. Before her departure she wrote 
a letter to Buckstone, whom she still loved in spite of his bad 
conduct, inviting him to send his reply to Gonaives. This 
was the last he knew of her, until he met her in the drawing- 
room at Pine Hill. 

Three months after the receipt of her letter, Buckstone 
saw in the newspapers an account of the wreck of Captain 
Thompson’s vessel, and the loss of all on board, except the 
negro cook. He had written to her, as requested, but now 
his wife was dead. He was sober then, and he grieved for 
the lost one ; and he was sincere, though his volatile nature 
could not long cling to a sorrow. 

Ellen was not lost; she was not even in the brig when 
she was wrecked. On the passage out, she had become a 
great favorite with an English lady, whose husband was a 
merchant in Gonaives. On her arrival in Hayti, she was 
warmly welcomed at the house of her friend, and, as her 
father intended to make another voyage to the same port 
immediately, she was persuaded to spend a few months in 
the family of the merchant. Captain Thompson, finding her 
so well contented with her new friends, and thinking the 
change would be mentally and physically beneficial to her, 
raised no objections to the continuation of the visit. The 
39 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


458 

news of the wreck of the brig and the loss of her fath(;r was 
a heavy blow ; but having no friends at home, she remained 
with the family of the merchant for some months. 

Her husband’s letter reached her, though long delayed, and 
she determined to return to him. She wrote to him, announ- 
cing her intention, and sailed for New York. She expected 
to be folded in his arms when she stepped on shore ; but no 
husband greeted her, and she began to search the city for 
him. She found his last residence, and there heard the ter- 
rible story of his murder in Poppleton — an event which had 
occurred three months before her arrival. 

At this time Dick Birch was in New York, inquiring into 
the antecedents of Buckstone. One of the persons to whom 
Ellen applied referred her to him for information. Her sad 
story was told. She was a penniless woman. Dick took 
her to the home of his father, on his return, and finally she 
was installed as the missionary at Poppleton, at his sugges- 
tion. He had advised her to resume her maiden name, and 
to conceal her relations with Buckstone. He was not alto- 
gether satisfied, at first, that she was the wife of Buckstone ; 
for it was possible that he had deceived her, as he had Mary. 
In Poppleton it would injure her to be known by her hus- 
band’s name. It was the way of the world to condemn with- 
out much inquiry. It could not be pleasant to Eugene and 
Mary to be reminded of the past by his name. Whether he 
was right or wrong, he deemed it best for all that Ellen’s 
previous history should be studiously concealed. It was 
simply a measure of humanity, for he had no suspicion that 
Buckstone was still living. There was no question of the 
marriage now ; no one denied it. 

“ Mr. Buckstone, we supposed you were killed,” said Dick, 
when the story of Ellen had been collated from both parties. 

“ I was not.” 

“ I supposed the blow I gave you would have killed any 
nan,” added Ross. 


THE LAST OF THE THREE MILLIONS. 


439 


“ I should certainly have perished if Dr. Bilks had not 
saved me.” 

Explain how it was,” said Dick. 

“ I was thrown ofl' the cliff; I don’t know whether the 
water partially restored me to consciousness, or whether I 
struggled ; but the first distinct recollection I had was of 
being on the beach with the doctor. What he did for me 
I don’t know, but I was as well as ever in half an hour, with 
the exception of a terrible pain in my head, caused by the 
blow I had received. I did not get over it for a month. Dr. 
Bilks ” 

“ Dr. Lynch is his real name,” interposed Dick. 

“ Dr. Lynch, then, explained what he wanted of me. He 
had sent for me, and offered me a thousand dollars if I would 
publicly marry Miss Kingman. I intended to claim my wife 
again, but I wanted the money. I had always been short 
of funds. He wished me to marry her to prevent Mr. Hun- 
gerford from doing so. If I spoke of any doubts in regard 
to the legality of the marriage in Providence, it was only to 
get the money offered to me.” 

“What did the doctor say he wanted of you?” asked 
Dick, when Buckstone exhibited a tendency to enlarge upon 
his own excuses. 

“ He laid out the plan just as he has carried it out. It would 
appear on the following day that I had been murdered by 
Ross Kingman. This was what he wanted, he said ; he 
wished Mr. Hungerford to marry Mary then, if I would do 
as he wished me to do. He proposed to give me three thou- 
sand dollars a year for six years if I would assist. The 
olffer blinded my eyes, and ” 

“You accepted it.” 

“ I did ; and he stipulated that I should leave the town 
before morning, and remain in some foreign land until he 
needed my attendance. Mary would apparently be a widow. 
I told him how to procure the evidence of our marriage, and 
gave him a letter to Doming. Hungerford would make her 


460 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


his wife, and live in perfect confidence with her until the 
time when the three millions would come to him by the 
conditions of his uncle’s will. Dr. Bilks, or Dr. Lyncli, 
explained the whole matter to me. At the right time 1 
was to appear, claim Mary as my wife, and thus prove that 
the child was illegitimate, if there was one. 

“ I had been wishing for years to go to Italy to study art 
The means were now within my hand, and the doctor prom- 
ised to remit the three thousand dollars to me every year. 
He has done so faithfully and punctually ; though I hoped 
he would fail, for I was disgusted with the business.” 

“ What did you do while on the beach ? We found a body 
at the bottom of the channel which was identified as 
yours.” 

“ There had been a man by the name of Goodwin drowned 
that day. The doctor took me into the boat, and rowed 
down to the cliff', where he had found the body wedged in 
among the rocks. We conveyed it back to the beach. We 
then went to the doctor’s office, where I wrote the letter to 
Doming, and he wrote something — I don’t know what. 
He gave me a suit of his clothes, and a draft on New York 
for three thousand dollars, the first instalment of the reward. 
I put on the clothes, and we returned to the beach. The 
garments were removed from the corpse, and mine substi- 
tuted for them. My wallet, porte-monnaie, and all the con- 
tents of my pockets were left upon the body. Even the rings 
upon my fingers were transferred to the hand of the dead 
man. 

“ To my horror the doctor cut off* the head of the corpse, 
tied it up in his handkerchief, and put it into the boat. He 
said this was to prevent any one from supposing the remains 
were not mine. We then took the body out into the channel 
a little way, fastened a fifty-six pound weight we found in 
the boat to it, and sunk it with a rope. He fastened a stone 
to the end of the rope, and threw it overboard.” 

‘ What was that for? ” 


THE LAST OF THE THREE MILLIONS. 46 1 

“ Dr. Lynch said after the body had laid there a month oi 
so, there could be no possibility that any friend of the de- 
ceased would recognize it. He intended to make everything 
perfectly sure. He meant to fish up the rope some night, 
and let the body be found, and it would satisfy all that I was 
dead. When all this was done, we left the island, landing 
near the Point. I left him there, and walked ten miles be- 
fore morning. At East Summerville I hired a boy to drive 
me to Newington, in his father’s wagon. At this place 1 
took the morning train for Boston, keeping out of sight in 
the cars, to avoid being recognized by any one from Popple- 
ton. I took the first steamer for Liverpool, and made my 
way to Italy, wnere I resided most of the time till my return 
two months ago.” 

The absorbing interest of these narratives had thrown the 
eminent trustees entirely into the shade ; but when they were 
finished, Mr. Lester proceeded to hand the securities to 
Eugene, which he did with the utmost precision and for- 
mality. 

“ Mr. Lester, as a thank offering for the blessings this 
night has confirmed to me, not the least of which is my wife, 
I purpose to carry out the original intentions of my uncle, 
so far as the charitable institutions are concerned,” said 
Eugene. 

“You astonish me, Mr. Hungerford ! ” exclaimed the 
chairman of the trustees, who might, with entire truth, have 
added that he believed Eugene was crazy. 

“ The city of Baltimore was the home of my uncle. His 
property was accumulated there ; and I deem it no more 
than right that the place of his residence should have good 
reason gratefully to remember him. The three asylums 
shall be founded, and half the three millions shall be appro- 
priated to tiiat purpose. My sister has already received her 
full share. If Dr. L 3 mch had behaved like an honest man, 
he would have lost nothing by my marriage with Mary. It 
has been my intention, from the beginning, to carry out, not 
39* 


462 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


only my uncle’s primary, but also his secondary iiitentions. 
Dr. Lvnch has defeated himself. I could have given him all 
the will mentioned, with a million still remaining. He has 
chosen to serve the devil, and his master has disappointed 
him.” 

“ Honesty is the best policy,” laughed Dick. 

“ Whether it is or not, we should still be honest.” 

“ A man worth his million and a half can afford to be 
honest,” said Mr. Lester. 

“ And a man who is not worth a penny cannot afford to 
be dishonest,” added Eugene, whose ethics seldom agreed 
with those of the eminent merchant. 

At twelve o’clock the party in the drawing-room separated. 
Squire Perkins and his daughter were sent home in the car- 
riage. When the driver had returned, Parkinson went up to 
Eugene’s room and knocked at the door. 

“ There is great news at the Port, sir.” 

“What is it?” 

“Dr. Lynch has shot himself through the head.” 

The news was true. The discomfited wretch had sacri- 
ficed reputation, character, everything, to win a fortune. If 
he had won it, he could have conquered an ill name — it 
was the way of the world. He had lost it ; and he had 
nothing to do but to die. He could not face the storm which 
might greet him the next day ; and all unshriyed, he went 
into the presence of the Almighty Judge. 

Buckstone and his wife remained at Pine Hill that night. 
In the morning they departed for New York. A few days 
after their arrival, a banker in that city sent for Mrs. Buck- 
stone, and informed her that she was entitled to draw twelve 
hundred dollars a year at his office, being the income of 
twenty thousand dollars deposited with him for her exclusive 
US2. Eugene felt that his faithful missionary was deserving 
of some tribute of regard. But Buckstone had evidentl}? 
sown his wild oats, and Ellen frequently wrote to Mary, 


THE LAST OF THE THREE MILLIONS. 463 

ipeaking in the warmest terms of his fidelity and devotion 
to her. 

Eugene still continues to dispense his charities, on a large 
scale, but as silently as the dews of heaven water the flowers 
when all men sleep. Poppleton and paradise are every year 
becoming more similar under his influence, though he never 
expects to realize his highest ideal of a Christian commu- 
nity. 

Ross Kingman has built a new house on The Great Bell, 
and is a man of influence in Poppleton. He still enjoys the 
confidence of his employer, and is not the less happy fcr the 
knowledge that his hand is not stained with blood. 

One night, the gravestone bearing the name of Buck- 
stone disappeared from the cemetery ; but another, with the 
name of Edward Goodwin, was placed at the head of the 
grave. Dick Birch did this work, so that no questions were 
asked, no unpleasant remarks made. 

Master John Hungerford, Miss Mary Hungerford, and 
Master Eugene. Hungerfoit.l Birch are bv far the most im- 
portant personages at Pine Hill. Joijiiint has passed safely 
through the measles, but Eugene H. B., on account of a 
little vein of obstinacy, probably inherited from his mother, 
refused to take them, though Mrs. Hungerford, senior, went 
over to “ the other house ” every day, in order to take the 
bull by the horns in good season. But the children are 
all doing well, and being treated to an abundance of fresh 
air we doubt not in due time Master John Hungerford will 
be a millionnaire. 

“Eugene, I think I am a great deal happier than I deserve 
to be,” said Mary, one evening after she had put the little 
ones to bed, and seen them both drop oft' into the slumbei 
of innocence. 

“ You are happy because you are good, Mary.” 

“ Have you never repented taking me ? ” 

“ Repented ! I have never ceased to rejoice that you are 
mine.” 


464 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


“ I owe all my happiness in this world to you.” 

“No; to the Good Father, who gives it to you because 
you are so true and good.” 

“ But to you as His minister. I tremble when I think 
what I might have been without you, Euge»^e.” 

“ M}' joy has been greater than yours.* 

“ I was cast out, despised, loathed.” 

“ But you did not deserve it.” 

“It was Twe Way of the World.* 



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